Heir Magnor Green
by heir magnor green
Summary: The key to infinite power and a secret society is knowledge. HG-LV. Dark.
1. Chapter 1

"My name is Dalton Russell. Pay strict attention to what I say because I choose my words carefully and I never repeat myself. I've told you my name: that's the Who. The Where could most readily be described as a prison cell. But there's a vast difference between being stuck in a tiny cell and being in prison. The What is easy: recently, I planned and set in motion events to execute the perfect bank robbery. That's also the When. As for the Why: beyond the obvious financial motivation, it's exceedingly simple...because I can. Which leaves us only with the How; and therein, as the Bard would tell us, lies the rub."

Hermione. Hermione Granger.

Labeled by Headmistress Williams as "astoundingly receptive to memorization and recitation, lacks the adaptation needed for application; thus best suited for secretarial school". That small note was buried in the back of her lower school matriculation files, behind all her muggle belongings, behind all the wizardry books for first years, in a life she no longer could consider herself part of. Stepping into muggle London was not as easy of a transition as in first year - wizarding fashion crept into her wardrobe and mannerisms gleaned from widarding texts were too outdated, too contrived for her parent's increasingly prominent place in muggle society. Everything that didn't warrant a place in the wizarding world was left in the closet of her familial home in Kensington. Oddly enough, Headmistress Williams' remarks so boldly declared on Weldon Park Academy stationary, predicted her current station far better than any Hogwarts professors.

Perhaps that was too melodramatic to be considered truth. Work, any work, for the Order of the Phoenix is important, but even with perception akin to blind, blibbering humdingers, one could easily see the tasks delegated to Hermione were crippling her mentally. The beauty of an eidetic memory is being able to recall information with unwavering accuracy. In application, the process is time-consuming, if only because the Order requires Hermione to thoroughly document every source in a way that can be presented in an Order meeting without her presence. "Without her presence" evolved from waiting to come of age to stagnating in the library nee basement of 12 Grimmauld Place. She is the best researcher the Order has. With the whole of the Black library safely chronicled in the vast vault of her mind, she is likely the best informed.

Hermione was forced to snap out of her reverie for a moment to wrestle the newest request from the pipe that served as her lifeline to the outside world. The parchment was red, meaning: urgent, and scrawled in Molly Weasley's distinctive hand. Hermione neatly placed the request at the front of Molly's stack, which coincidentally happened to be the furthest from her concentration. Hermione's lab notes, filled almost seven times over thanks to spelled parchement, lay open to the key to her salvation. In an attempt to free herself from the basement Hermione is attempting to charm the contents of the books into a single source, accessible by any Order member and functions in the same way a library's card system works but modified with an summoning charm. To enter the charm the user identifies words from the control point and then the charm will automatically find the most definitive source on the issues at hand and reproduce the information in Hermione's standard form.

'My input into the system is effecting the magical vectors associated with the key words in a predetermined fashion just like I had predicted. I was able to adopt the system to work with elf-magic determining Kreacher can operate the system fully.' Hermione cataloged her observations in her lab notes, cringing at remembering Kreacher's not-so-subtle request at summoning a brutal account of a muggle slaughter simply by inputing "all dead mudbloods".

'The system performs accurately in all tests, from obscure compilations of a day in history's events, to specific factual evidence needed to support a conclusion. The system fails in performance trials with the members of the Order of the Phoenix Ginerva Weasley, Ronald Weasley, Mundungus Fletcher, and Rubeus Hagrid. More trials are needed to determine point of failure.'

Hermione snapped her lab notes shut and pulled out her personal notes. Deciding she had done enough for one day for the Order she flipped to her most recent entry: Controlled Casting of the Highest Power. The next hour was spent furiously expanding her theories on increasing the power of one's magic. Her notes were too disjointed for her liking. With no one to debate the finer points of spells she was left to play devil's advocate for every theory, and had to summarize her findings at the end of every section as to not lose her focus. She argued both sides better than anyone in this place, and invariably her inner monologue produced far greater results than discussing theory with Alastor Moody whenever she could corner him in front of the liquor cabinet. She'd given that up long ago after she was bound and forced to take Vertiserum to prove her good intent while trying to question Moody on the protective properties of unicorn hair. Just because unicorn hair is only used in dark rituals doesn't mean hair freely given would still be considered dark. It was suspicious she couldn't talk a single unicorn into giving her any hair. Her last trip into the Dark Forest went rather well with the unicorns until she asked for hair to help protect the Order members. If only she could get Dumbledore, he must know everything there is to know about the Dark Forest and must be on good terms with the unicorns. Dumbledore even had a unicorn hair bracelet he wore; surely he could get them to spare a strand next time he went. The wizard never had time to loiter around and discuss theories though - there was actually a war going on outside these walls. He always did manage to make her feel guilty about not spending more time working on Order requests.

Severus Snape was the only one who would entertain the notion of her extracurricular studies, yet any hope of finding a mentor was immediately squashed as Snape predictably scorned her work for the Order in the very next sentence. It was crushing, to say the least, every time Snape graced her presence. He remained the only person to refuse to use the pipeline Alastor Moody had installed as a mode of communication. Hermione's heart would race when the door to her basement would open of its own accord - Hermione had taken to bribing Order members into participating in her tabula rastious charm - and hoping it would be Harry bounding down the stairs to detail his latest adventure, her heart would sink as her brain registered the floor-length robes, laced-boots, and tedious buttons slowly reveling themselves as Snape would descend the rickety staircase in his infuriatingly slow saunter.

Since Hermione had just been musing about Severus Snape, the surprise of seeing him in the flesh just moments later was quickly overpowered by her fear of being caught working on non-Order business.

"Relax, Miss Granger. If I thought you actually spent all the time you were down here rooting though archaic tomes for obscure references already irrelevant by the time the request reaches your desk, I would have suggested Longbottom for the job." Snape had an uncanny way of making one compliment, two insults.

"Professor, this..." Hermione was halted by the sneering look Snape realigned in her direction, "Mister Snape, this work is far more important than you give me credit for, I am worth many times more than the average Order member. In fact, just this morning I put out a defense report on a skirmish so at the next battle we won't fall to the same mistakes."

"You are worth many times more than the others, but this work is not. The Order won't fall to the same mistakes because the enemy will have evolved by the time those fools read your report." Hermione didn't have a retort; her only accounts of the enemy came through the pipeline above her desk. Admittedly, she had noticed the enemy's tactics were evolving at a much faster rate than the Order, if only they would read her accounts we could evolve more rapidly, too. Snape let the silence swell to emphasize his expectancy that Hermione should be analyzing his words. "Tell me Miss Granger, what is that you are working on?"

Hermione quickly jumped up to retrieve her parchment for the tabula rastious charm, "This is a charm I am developing for the Order that will be able to effectively replace me. It will be able to compile results according to key word at nearly the same rate I can, while not sacrificing quality. The user inputs keywords on this parchment and the results appear on the reverse side. I'm having trouble effectively translating the results from Kreacher and myself to other members of the Order, Ginny, Ron, Mundungus, and Hagrid were all able to retrieve information tangentially related to my test topic, but..."

Snape's palm showed in an attempt to quiet Hermione's rambling account of her work, shortly, Snape asked, "What charm?"

"I was originally using a summoning charm, but since people didn't know the information they were seeking I figured it would only work for me, since it is my information compiled. I developed the tabula rastious charm to essentially fill people's mind, or blank slate, on a topic they know nothing about." Hermione looked hopefully at Snape, she hadn't anyone to bounce ideas off of since her last subject, Hagrid, and she felt bad confusing the poor fellow.

Snape seemed to chuckle, in the way only Snape could, "Your only error is assuming your users have a blank slate. It works on yourself and Kreacher because you are able to single-mindedly hold an idea in your head and the charm builds off the subconscious connotations to your keywords. That wasn't what I was asking though, your pathetic little Order business doesn't hold my fancy. I'm talking about your little black book."

Hermione sighed, she had no way of controlling what the user was thinking and any attempt to lessen the effect of the subconscious on the charm decreased its ability to successfully compile relevant information. Serves them right. Idiots the lot of them. Now I'm going to rot down here. With my little black book, which Snape has managed to spot, once again, completely blowing my cover that, he was seeing things. "Ah, yes. Just a new version of lab notes."

"New version, indeed. Anything good?"

"Just a little bit of exponentialcontrolledcasting."

Full stop. If Hermione didn't know better Snape was attempting to control his tongue, a barb about little girls meddling in matters way beyond their brainpower, no doubt. In Snape's silence, Hermione was left to contemplate the validity of her doubts in her ability. She was a young witch, with little resources in the wizarding world, with nothing more than a freshly stamped Hogwarts diploma. Effectively, she no status or right to be studying such magic. Dark magic. The kind of magic the very man seated across from her could teach her. Snape shifted barely perceptibly in his seat and Hermione was able to deduce his thoughts immediately. "Don't. Say. A. Word. Snape."

"My, my, Miss Granger. They really don't let you out of here. I believe I'm going to half to be on my way." Hermione followed Snape's eyes from the cot in the corner, impeccably made but telling of her situation, to over her head - or what must have been her sorry excuse for hair. "You know, actual Order business to attend to." Snape was already at the stairs. "There is an Order meeting tonight, even Potter is coming in for this one. Oh, forgive me, you are not yet a member. Perhaps next time." The door to her prison slammed closed, the sound echoing in her ears. Every time that insufferable git of a man comes into my basement, he riles me up with illusions of intellectual debate, only to suddenly heave me off my broomstick to hurdle back into the reality of my life. I'll show him. I made it though seven years at Hogwarts with no one to compete with intellectually, I could easily make it seven more. Just like I pushed through school, if I just make it this last bit further, life will better on the other side. Once I prove to the Order I am ready.

Hermione called Kreacher to serve dinner. He was the only one she could count on, the little bugger. He recently took to loitering around her room longer than necessary, so before he returned with her tray of food Hermione made sure to disillusion her lab notes on the counter into the tale of The Beetle and the Bard. Her personal notes she safely tucked into her dragon hide handbag. God help her, as soon as Mother found out she could have access to an exclusive wizarding line of Karl Lagerfeld's her mother would not stop sending her things. Honestly, if muggles didn't already suspect the man was a wizard, Mother was well on her way to outing him. The handbag was well protected though and when she got back into wizarding London no one would steal it from her for fear she had already stolen it from someone much more powerful. Unfortunately, until she was back in wizarding London, Hermione had to be content to use it as a catch all for things she didn't want ruined by her extensive potions lab.

Kreacher returned with a crack that sounded much more harsh than necessary. "Mistress Hermione, Kreacher brought you supper, shame Master Snape won't be dinning with Mistress Hermione tonight. Mistress Hermione would do well to court Master Snape. Master Snape is a good man."

Pretending not to pay much attention to Kreacher on purpose, Hermione began her first course with half an eye on Kreacher. Emboldened by his Mistress' distraction Kreacher made his way over to her lab table and started tidying up. What is Kreacher doing? The only feasible explanation is Snape wants to snoop around in my business to find out what I've really been doing down here this whole time. He's right, I've been producing considerably less work than I first started and spending way too much time on my personal research. I could really use a sponsor though; Snape seems to be my only option. Kreacher is likely reporting back any information he can see. Wait! He just pilfered one of my papers from the rubbish bin. It couldn't hurt to have Snape get my personal notes, they are all very well organized, an exceedingly truthful representation on my thought process, perhaps too hasty though, maybe I should rewrite them before I let Kreacher find them.

"Kreacher is so sorry to spill Mistress' things. Kreacher will clean them up immediately." Hermione looked over to see the entire contents of her dragon hide handbag littered under her desk. Kreacher didn't just knock the bag over, he must have used elf magic because that is no ordinary hand bag. Hermione couldn't see Kreacher but had every idea of what was going on under her desk. After Kreacher popped away to get her second course, Hermione walked over to peek under her desk. Sure enough, Kreacher had ditched the paper from her rubbish bin in exchange for her, now missing, personal notes. Even more telling was the amount of time he took to return with her food, which usually took 15 seconds tops.

'If anything, Snape is surely going to offer me a position as his assistant or even apprentice. As soon as he sees my work he will be obligated to at least direct my studies. I haven't had time to rationally explore every topic because there is just so much to learn and so little time. Oh no. Snape is going to think my brief overview of all the subjects is all I can understand. I hadn't much time! Surely he will see that. A man of his position in the Order is sure to know how much workload I receive everyday. I need more time. I need to let Snape know that I haven't been able to delve into the topics as much as I have wanted to. The wizard must know. He's still working for Voldemort, he must know what a strain on your concentration trivial Order matters can be. Not that the Order itself is trivial. Just tedious some times.'

Hermione's internal monologue kept her through her fifth course, a delectable desert of creme fresh and seasoned fruit. A meal worthy of her mother. If the Order was eating meals like this, they may as well stay home. Hermione began to help Kreacher clean the rest of her workspace. Not much needed tidying but the dragon bone tiled counter under Hermione's cauldron was Hermione's pride and joy. Kreacher had installed it not too many days after her seventeenth birthday, Harry must have found it in one of the upper floor labrotories and sent it down as a birthday present. The boy was just too thoughtful sometimes, it had already been a month, but Hermione had yet to thank him. Ronald and Harry were out risking their lives for the greater good, while she was stuck in the basement. But not stuck for long, Snape was surely curious about her intelligence if he took the time to have Kreacher steal her personal notes. Hermione crawled into bed with the happy thought that tomorrow may be the first of her last days in her basement.


	2. Chapter 2

"If I were the man I was five year's ago, I'd take a FLAME THROWER TO THIS PLACE!" - Al Pacino

"Albus, this is ridiculous. You can't keep her down there." Snape was treading a well-worn line - he couldn't remember a time when Albus Dumbledore's antics didn't incense him beyond all rational thought.

Dumbledore flicked his wand lazily, "Severus, she is a danger to herself. Even her notebooks are well beyond the grasp of the Order. You know first hand how Tom turned out."

"Lord Voldemort, sir, has been ignored and unguided since you plucked him from the orphanage." With any other audience, Snape would have been well out the door by now. His position in the Order teetered precariously under Snape's usual self-control, this uncharacteristic show of emotion was bound to draw more attention than he could afford.

Dumbledore didn't seem phased by Snape's calmly delivered insult. "Lemon drop?" He held up a lemon drop, inspecting it as though he hadn't been eating them since before Severus' school days.

"No! I do not bloody want a lemon drop. I want the Order to get out of this slump, and Hermione Granger is the one to do it." Snape was standing now; it was all he could to remain in the same room.

Dumbledore popped another lemon drop into his mouth, "The Order has a leader and you would do well to remember that next time the boy speaks at meetings. I will not tolerate this from you Severus. You have been against the boy from the beginning. He is the Chosen One. He is the one who will relieve us of Tom and his followers. This child, Hermione, has been nothing but trouble since the beginning. When I find a way to to reign in Hermione's curiosity, she will be allowed to participate in the Order."

"I know she cannot participate until she is more stable, I'm just frustrated at all the men we are losing out there. I want to help." The lies fell from his tongue easily. This is what he was born to do. Subterfuge, deceit, and manipulation. Snape forced his tense shoulders a millimeter forward as if in defeat to complete the charm. Snape almost agreed to submit to Potter's station, but just as the words were forming in his chest some innate sense stopped him, "The boy however, I will not follow around like some star-struck girl. He couldn't brew a single potion correctly to save his life."

Snape knew he played his hand well when Dumbledore's chuckle reached him, "Severus, my boy, one day you will learn there are some skills that cannot be learned in a class. The capacity for love in Harry's heart far exceeds any textbook measure of worth. Now, I must be going. I need to get Andromeda before I head to the ministry, a death eater is meddling at the ministry in affairs he ought not be."

Dumbledore and Snape left the office together and we're walking down the stairs when the door just below their feet burst to open to reveal an entirely disheveled Hermione Granger. "Headmaster, thank goodness I've caught you, I always seem to miss you when you are here, there are some anomalies in the reports I am receiving about the battles, I wanted to correct them with you since these are the reports the Order reads, and unfortunately you are the only surviving witness in many of them. Do you have a minute?"

Snape made a concerted effort not to quirk an eyebrow at Hermione's findings, he interest could not have been piqued more when Albus replied, "Miss Granger, I assure you whatever is in those reports is correct, it is the sad, sad truth. I wouldn't dwell on it too much. I myself have spent hours pouring over the notes strategizing improvements to our defenses. Their sheer numbers are our downfall, but since those reports I have made significant improvements to our tactics. Perhaps you would know more than me about it really, muggle military units would use Guerilla formations in their skirmishes. Would you research that for me? As a personal favor? It has been so long since I have read muggle history." Dumbledore was flipping though Hermione's notes, glancing appropriately at each page with red ink staining its parchment.

"Right away sir, you can expect an in depth report and presentation by the end of the week. I should get started now, there's Greek, Roman, South African..." Hermione turned on her heel and sunk back into the dark depths of the basement cataloging her research needs as she went.

As soon as the door to the basement clicked shut, Dumbledore shoved Hermione's parchment into Snape's hands. "Poor girl, she is already beginning to acquire his features. Dark, sallow. Perhaps you should keep an eye out for her." Dumbledore began to walk towards the kitchen, the Order's unofficial rallying point, where Tonks was likely to be. "Severus. Those papers. Get rid of them."

Snape already knew he had no intention to get rid of the papers as soon as Dumbledore slipped them from Hermione's unsuspecting fingers. The old man very rarely let information slip. All too often Snape, after a meeting with Dumbledore, would notice the slightest gaps in his memory. These papers were a rare occurrence. Likely they held no tangible information, almost certainly because he was able to hold them in his own hands, but if there was something Hermione Granger wasn't supposed to spend time dwelling on, it was good news to him.

Number 12 Grimmauld Place was always quiet. After a few key appearances in high-traffic areas of the house, Snape felt comfortable leaving for the day without anyone noticing his absence. First order of business: Knockturn Alley. Snape rounded a corner into a dark hallway with sheets hanging obtrusively from the walls - Potter's attempt at removing the elf heads via Standard Book of Spells, Grade One obviously failed and the sheets were his second choice. It suited Snape just fine, no one came down this hallway so it was the perfect place for his departure to go unnoticed.

His next breath singeing his lungs marked his arrival. Snape had arrived closest to Diagon Alley were the lepers like to set up shop. Snape quickly removed himself from the foul smelling concoction the man next to him was alternately sipping and smelling. Out of the corner of his eye, Snape caught sight of the pub, the reason he was here in the first place. Folding his hood over his face, Snape made his way anonymously toward the entrance. His favorite corner booth was open. Just after positioning himself at angle where the whole room was visible, Madam Nemophila appeared to take his order.

"Firewhiskey; neat. And a Daily Prophet." Snape didn't bother concealing his voice. Those who would recognize it, would fear it.

The Atrus was consistently full, not to capacity, but well enough that conversation at the bar was not forced. Today seemed to be more temperate than most, at first glance there were no drunks, no underhanded dealings, and no fights. Thus, the perfect place to contemplate whether or not to return home at long last. Knockturn Alley is a rest stop on the way to home. A place where the light and the good are only a block away, but the comforting warmth of the Dark Arts are accessible. Now to define home. For Snape, home had been limited to Hogwarts for the past seven years. Spinner's End was too close to the Lord's reach for, in Dumbledore's mind, a recovering addict. Hogwarts itself was suffocating. The intolerable children never realize the very knowledge they so ardently ignore is the key into the wizarding world. The professors, coddling and smothering where ever possible. Dumbledore, practically giving away diplomas to his favorite students so he could keep them close to the battle.

Nemophila returned with his firewhiskey and newspaper. He waved her away. There, on the front page of the Daily Prophet, was Albus Dumbledore. Delivering some kind of speech. The transcript was printed below:

"Wizards and witches of London. I cannot, in good conscious, ignore the increasing threats of our enemy any longer. Effective immediately, a nationwide curfew is in effect. This is not cause for alarm. This is merely a way to take the temptation from our attackers. We will not be made victim. Additionally, taxes are being levied to provide the full-time service of the entire Auror Department. These taxes will not fall heavily on the weak, victimized, or oppressed they will be levied from those most able to afford them. These taxes will aide the entire Ministry of Magic. I humbly take this time to call on our society's children, anyone graduating in the past five years with five or more NEWTS and in good standing with the Ministry, has been offered a place in Accelerated Auror training, starting immediately. These measures are for the good of our society, for the good of the light, and for the good of the entire wizarding world."

Snape couldn't stand to read the rest of the article. In summary: restriction, taxation, conscription, and control. The Prophet found dozens of testimonials to embolden the story, fathers proud to send their children to fight, wealthy entertainers volunteering more than their share of the taxes, Ministry officials desperately praising Dumbledore from saving their departments from shuttering their doors. The whole spectacle was a sickening display designed to placate the masses.

No, home this time was going to be far more dangerous than Spinner's End. He was going right to the source. Snape threw back his firewhiskey and flung a galleon on the table. Not bothering to wait for his change, Snape headed for the door. His black cloak billowed behind him as he wound his way through the Knockturn district.

'Those insufferable fools. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. To be manipulated by an aging wizard, a wizard revered as the only man Lord Voldemort fears, is deplorable. Homebound at risk of being arrested and questioned with Veritiserum without cause. Taxed to pay for Dumbledore's private army. Children, just barely of age, drafted into his army. Perhaps I will keep an eye out for Hermione; she is surely going to find out eventually. Albus did offer. There is no way she could have read that article and still looked Albus in the eye. Hermione would catch on to these things. She could brew a nice potion, too.' Snape's lips curled into a tight smile at the thought. He would want her.

Snape landed outside the entrance to Lord Voldemort's home in Kensington. Home at last. He could see his window across the courtyard with his curtains drawn just as he had left them. Snape never had time to stay the night here; Albus preferred his jaunts into the Dark Arts to be short, forced, and brutal. No time to dwell on the delicate intricacies of the art. Snape strode to the front door and was greeted by a house elf he didn't recognize. "Mister Snape. Olli is very pleased to welcome you back. Master is expecting you. Come, come. Olli will take you to him now."

The walk through the mansion was quiet. Snape nodded to Rookwood and Roiser, who paused in their game of chess to cast a proud glance Snape's direction. Olli was bounding a few steps ahead of him, pausing, remembering his task, returning to Snape's side, and repeating the whole cycle again every few steps. Lord Voldemort sat facing away from Olli and Snape's approach but rose from his chair in an uncharacteristic form of greeting.

"Lord." Snape had not planned his departure from the light side much further than making it to Atrus, so he resorted to old formalities. He placed his left arm behind his back and his right in front of his waist, tipping forward from the hips in the customary bow. He made sure to hold his position a beat longer than Lord Voldemort.

By the time Severus looked up, Lord Voldemort was already making his way towards him, arms outstretched. "Severus Snape. Welcome home." Lord Voldemort clasped Snapes forearm so his palm covered Snape's Dark Mark. Lord Voldemort free arm firmly held Snape by just above the elbow in a pseudo handshake. "Ah, yes the article. Interesting piece. I see you didn't make it to the next page. A humorous account of a skirmish in the Underground, apparently I lost no fewer than twelve men." Snape looked ill. "I could always read your mind you know, even when you were at the height of your betrayal. I always knew."

"Forgive me. I was foolish." When Snape was confronted with the unknown, in this case, almost certain death for his betrayal his modus operandi was to put things simply.

Lord Voldemort seemed to take a moment to breathe in the chilled air drifting across the balcony, before he responded, "That conversation is for another time. I always knew you would return and with you would come much, much more than you could have gotten while staying loyal to me. Although, I feel you are coming to me now with more than just information on Order business. Tell me. I only ever get emotions from your brain." Lord Voldemort settled into his chair as if to emphasize he saw Snape as no worthy threat.

"There is a muggleborn." Snape started with no real intentions for the outcome of this conversation.

Lord Voldemort waved his hand in a small but powerful gesture, the type careful to not waste any energy, "You know none of that concerns me. Get to the meat of the matter."

"She is Harry Potter's best friend. She wants out of the Order. She just doesn't know it yet." Snape had half the mind to stop himself, apologize for his absurd imagination, and never look back. "She is brilliant, even I admit it. Amazingly hardy, too. She has been locked in a basement for at least two months and shows no signs of dementia."

Lord Voldemort interrupted, "The Order is holding Potter's best friend hostage?"

Snape shook his head, "Yes and no. She is unaware that her situation is dire at best. Dumbledore is keeping her in the basement until he can concoct a way to break her mind. She thinks she is being kept on research duty because she is the best at it. Which she is, but no one reads her reports, anyways, no matter how much she dumbs down her language."

"This is curious, but none of my concern. In her current situation she is neither helping nor hurting my men, so I have no reason to remove her from there. Nor do I have any incentive to do, lest she prove herself both capable of rationalizing a change in allegiance and the magical and intellectual power to make her worth my while." Lord Voldemort paused to let his rationale speak for itself.

Damn Hermione Granger for nagging her way into his thoughts. Snape patted his breast pocket to locate the parchment Dumbledore had told him to dispose of, pulled it out and handed it to the Dark Lord.

"I see. Potter's best friend seems to be doing me more good in her current predicament." Lord Voldemort shuffled though the parchment, noting the corrections in red ink.

"She is looking for a mentor. Hermione. Hermione Granger. She covers university level courses worth of material in approximately a week." Lord Voldemort did not seem impressed; he had not looked up from the reports yet. "Lord, she only allows herself an hour a day away from Order business for her independent studies, and she has no one to teach her."

This, finally, got Lord Voldemort's attention. Snape was relieved he had not entirely wasted the past twenty minutes of Lord Voldemort's time. "This girl, Granger. Is not, nor will become an Order member until Dumbledore breaks her mind?" Snape nodded in response. "Then she is at no risk of fleeing?" Again, Snape nodded in response. "Then she will stay where she is until you are sure she is ready. Now that I have temporarily quelled any elaborate jailbreak plans, have you yourself broken out, or just here on holiday?"

"Closer to a lunch break than anything, Lord." Snape began to dread the moment he had to face Dumbledore. The Daily Prophet wasn't allowed in headquarters because 'it's doomsday approach to the war weakened moral', now Snape knows its because he doesn't want the Order members who all seem to be on perpetual coffee break, to have too much time to mull over his barbaric policies.

Lord Voldemort was having some trouble deciding what to do with Snape. All parties involved hoped Snape had intentionally severed all ties on his way out, so there wouldn't have to be a discussion about under what capacity Snape would return to the Order. "I'll leave you to it then." Lord Voldement collected his lengthy frame underneath himself and stood deliberately. The end result was much more imposing than Snape's warm, by all comparisons, welcome.

Snape was dumbfounded to say the least. Lord Voldemort was essentially cutting him loose. Snape had come with every intention of shackling himself to the genius he so feared seven years ago, and now he was cut free. In that small moment, the dawning of realization that he was indeed a free man, Snape decided that if he was going to come back to Voldemort's cause he was going to bring Hermione with him.

On the way out the door, Olli reappeared. "Mister Snape. Olli is very sad to see Mister Snape go. Olli hopes very much that Mister Snape will return, very soon. Olli is most excited to prepare Mister Snape's quarters." The overzealous elf was yammering the whole way to the door. Once outside, in the middle of muggle Kensington, on the most coveted street in the parish, the door seemed to have closed itself.

Back inside, Lord Voldemort made his way to the library. The library had a link to every wizarding family's home, at least the one's worth knowing. He put his finger against the portal and ordered in the voice so many had come to think as synonymous with death, "Kreacher!"

Instantly, Kreacher's face appeared. "Master was wanting Kreacher?"


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione wakes up at what she assumes is the crack of dawn, the basement was insulated from any indicators otherwise. Knowing her luck, Kreacher may have even gone so far as to adjust her alarm clock so he could serve her at his leisure. Scattered about her desk was every account of muggle fighting tactics she could commit from memory. The Black's library was noticeably lacking in military technology from the muggle world, so she did not have any concrete resources to draw from.

'I should have read those military histories Father was always pushing on me, but no, I had to concern myself with only the most current muggle, well, crap. The lot of it. It must have frustrated him to no end that I took so keenly to wizard history. It just seems there is more respect for it here. Here, as in the wizarding world in general, if I ever do get Harry or Ron or anyone in the house to learn something from a history book, I could die knowing I fulfilled my purpose.' Hermione smiled to herself, 'Boys will be boys, even in muggle lower school I remember the boys only valuing the skills they could actually perform. The girls didn't value education all that much either. And they still don't. I always knew I should have been in Ravenclaw. To think how much I could have furthered my education with peers to debate theories with.'

With her last thought, Hermione tapped the table. All her papers immediately moved to stack themselves neatly in front of Hermione's chair. Again and again, Hermione kept finding that she didn't need a specific charm to make things around her happen. It was how she first discovered the possibility for the tabula rastious charm. The charm was only needed to adapt her finding to others, and even that wasn't going well. Hermione was already poised with wax and a large parchment to seal her notes for filing. She pressed the insignia of her ring into the wax and readied a spot in her drawer while the wax cooled. Her drawer was already straining under the load all her notes had applied, but if it didn't get in this drawer, it didn't show up in the tabula rastious. Hermione forcefully gave the papers a shove to ensure the drawer would be able to close over the top of the pages.

'I need The Art of War and it could be helpful to have Father's notes. I need to go home.' Hermione thought definitively. There was nothing more she could do before she had those notes. She hated to make a decision without it being fully informed.

Hermione made an attempt to make herself presentable. Her hair, while not greasy, had taken on a hydrated look that weighed it down. With a little help from a pennello charm her hair may have passed for presentable. She wouldn't know for sure until she went topside and could find a mirror. Now for clothing. After graduation, anything that couldn't fit in her trunk was thrown in the rubbish bin. Books were the number one priority in packing up from Hogwarts, but surely she had left something from home. All of her shrunken belongings appeared in their actual size as she unceremoniously grabbed them from her trunk. Anything from the muggle world was at the bottom, naturally.

Hermione finally settled on a pair of black trousers and a simple black button down. Mother was not going to approve, but at least if she threw a hissy-fit Hermione could remind her, that the clothes at least came from a designer that Mother approves of. They remained some of the only muggle clothes Hermione kept, solely because they would fit under her work cloak. She just wouldn't mention that to Mother.

The stairs protested loudly as she hauled herself using the banister. This was the first time she had been outside in a long time. No, it wasn't exactly like there was someone keeping her here, but the work just kept piling up. She was needed here. It just felt a little odd to be, well, leaving.

There, in front of the door, appeared Molly Weasley. Hermione made to smile at her and apologize for not getting her most recent request filled earlier; not that she could remember even looking at the form, but before Hermione could get a word out, Molly said, "Where are going? There's Order business to be tending to."

"Mrs. Weasley, I'm so happy to have run into you. I've been meaning to thank you for your cooking recently. Even in the midst of war you manage to keep all of us at headquarters well-fed. I'm actually going out on Order business. Dumbledore has tasked me to research possible advantages of reorganizing our attacks, I'm going to my home to get a book my father has on war strategies," Hermione paused after noting Molly's look of disinterest, anything that wasn't happening in the kitchen wasn't important, "well, I'm doing research."

Molly seemed to take in Hermione's appearance, weighing her story, and try to decide a course of action. It was a slow process, but evidently came a conclusion since she finally spoke, "I'm going to have to find Alastor or Lupin. Clearly you shouldn't be going on errands when the danger out there is far too great for young girls."

Hermione reluctantly agreed, if the reports coming across her desk were any indication it was a slaughter out there. She let Molly seat her in the sitting room while Molly went to find someone capable of making a decision.

Lupin and Alastor were surprised to see Molly burst though the door, "The nerve of that girl. On my life, if Ginny ever gets so...so disrespectful, I'll throw her out on the streets. She even had the nerve to confront me about not cooking for her anymore. Merlin's beard if she thinks I'll personally deliver her my special liver pie when she can't even come out of that hole. And we think she's down there doing research to help my Ron and Harry. NO, absolutely not, she's looking up hair charms in Witch's Weekly and owling away for clothes." Molly stood directly across from Lupin and Alastor, panting, and red in the face with emotion.

Stepping away from the map in front of him, Lupin said, "Now, Molly. We haven't seen the girl in ages. Surely she has come to you for a reason."

"Come to me? You think she came to me? I would think not. If I didn't listen to Alastor's warning of constant vigilance, I wouldn't have caught her trying to sneak out the front door. On Dumbledore's business, according to her."

"That's odd. Dumbledore didn't mention assigning her anything at the meeting yesterday." Alastor and Lupin shared a look, Lupin continued, "Reguardless, I think we should send an auror with her just to be certain. I think Diggle is here." Lupin nodded to himself as silent congratulations, it was the first thing he had accomplished all morning. These attacks were getting to well organized, the Order just wasn't able to respond. Alastor and he had been debating moving aurors around all morning.

Realizing the wizards were too concerned with Order business to see the only logical thing to do was send Hermione right back down to the basement, Molly set off in search of Diggle. At least if Hermione was up to something fishy, the order would know about it.

Molly drug Diggle to the front door, "Hermione you remember Mr. Diggle. He will be accompanying you today. He is a very busy wizard though, Hermione, so no waiting about. We need our solider here home as soon as possible, you're lucky we could even spare him today." Hermione was used to Molly's intense scrutiny by now, so she just edged toward the door nodding.

She side-along apparated Diggle to a muggle neighborhood on the outskirts of the city. They arrived in a dense bit of foliage in the park across the street from their destination. Hermione checked herself to make sure no leaves clung to her clothes and led Diggle across the street in silence. Diggle kept eyeing her, he didn't look like he could do any harm, but he was making her uncomfortable. Thankfully, he seemed to be just as enamored with the babysitting assignment as Hermione was with the ball and chain she now had to drag around, but not for much further.

The house was plain at best; realistically it probably erred on the side of being a hazard to the environment. The neighbors weren't much better, but the constant evictions and fights made it easy to go unnoticed. Hermione led Diggle into the screened porch and gestured for him to sit in one of the chairs. Silently but clearly alerting him to the fact that he was not coming indoors. Diggle seemed relieved to avoid making small talk with muggles and made himself comfortable. Hermione breathed a sign of relief; she wasn't going to need to take more drastic evasive measures than she was already about to.

The door had a standard muggle lock, so Hermione fumbled around in her dragon skin bag for a moment looking for the key. As soon as it jolted into her fingers she unlocked the door and quickly closed it behind her. For only a moment she was able to take in the barren walls and dingy carpet. The next moment she was looking at an entirely different scene. Her bedroom in Kensington. Mrs. Granger's tastes always leaned toward the extravagant, but their home was much more. It was comfortable and welcoming, despite being pretentious. She didn't know how her parents did it, her parent's oral surgery and investments were lucrative, yes, but she imagined there must have been a little interference from her mother's parents to make this place happen. Just another one of the many things that made her seem like an oddity at muggle school. Kids and their parents were hooked on the gossip circuit like addict on felix felicis, and when money didn't quite add up, popularity was on short supply.

The facade of a house was her father's idea. An old investment that hadn't, and probably will never, mature. It was a struggle at first, her father didn't want his lifestyle to be under the scrutiny of magicfolk and he was insistent. As Hermione's life in the wizarding world became more high profile she considered it a blessing. The less people knew about her regular life, the better. Even in Hogwart's files her real address wasn't listed. Her father's doing no doubt. He didn't want any more of his money disappearing into the wizarding world than was absolutely necessary. She had written him of Harry's rapidly depleting finances toward the end of school - it was the one thing her father could offer advice on from her wizarding life. Harry was pouring his inheritance into the Order, and Hermione was the only one who knew. She managed to glimpse into his vault before they graduated. Her father immediately sought protection for Hermione's finances. The Goblins were surprisingly familiar with the financial practices of the muggle world, and took to having her father discuss the limitations on Hermione's account much better than listening to Hermione try to remove them.

Hermione didn't have long before her mother appeared in her doorway, "Could you have bothered to wear a jacket? Some pearls? It is no matter. I am delighted you are here. And look at you, finally beginning to take after my side of the family; it would be a shame to have you looking like your father for any longer. The rugged, outdoorsmen look is really only for men."

Confused, Hermione snapped her head to look in her vanity mirror. "Oh. My." Was all Hermione could utter. She scrutinized her reflection, months in the basement had lightened her skin tone to match her mother's and without sunlight to bleach her hair, it was dark. Very dark. Combined with the darkness of her outfit, Hermione almost startled herself. How could someone at headquarters not comment on this, but really the only person she had seen since her birthday was Snape. Snape was not the kind of person to notice cosmetic changes in an insignificant little girl.

"Darling, you look fabulous. Do not make this into a bad thing. Perhaps we could go to the salon together, manicures? No, alright, a quick pedicure? Hermione you cannot continue to deny my only pleasure."

Hermione had been taking a turn about her room. Feeling the smooth texture of her bedding made even her finger tips feel rough. Her bookshelf was rearranged, most likely by an interior decorator attempting to create the look of attractive disorder; Hermione just noticed all the subjects were mixed together and no one author in the same place. Her favorite curtains that blocked out the sun better than Hogwart's charmed ones. Her paintings - wait. Hermione's eyes darted back to the window.

'I swear I just saw someone appear out of thin air at that corner.' Hermione made her way to the window in an attempt to identify the perpetrator, but by the time she got there the only thing happening outside was a mailman walking to stoop of the house next door. 'I must be paranoid of leaving Diggle at the midway point unattended, but I thought we didn't have neighbors.'

"Mother, when did we get neighbors?" Hermione questioned.

"Hermione you can not be serious, we got them after your forth year. You remember my letter after they declined an invitation to dine. Intensely private people, but the best neighbors I could have asked for."

Remembering the real reason she was here, Hermione asked, "Is Father around? I need to borrow a book from him, and hopefully I can get his notes."

"Yes, he is in the library. Surely you would like to borrow some jewelry, or even some clothing now that we have the same color wheel?" Hermione's mother trailed after her hopefully. It really did break Hermione's heart that she wasn't a better daughter to her mother. Maybe, if all goes well with the war, I will have the time to put more effort into my appearance, for her sake.

Hermione easily made it in an out of the library quickly, her father, like Hermione, was easily engrossed in reading and was eager to get back to his work. On her way out the door Hermione makes promises to come visit more often, usually empty, she might actually follow through. She has been so isolated at headquarters it felt good to be out in the open air. That, and she could do with some color back in her skin. She was starting to look like a Malfoy.

Once under the cover of the carriage house, Hermione apparates back to the midway point. She opens the front door and looks to the bench she left Diggle on, oddly missing. Upon spotting Diggle on the way to the curb, looking, for all intents and purposes about to leave, she calls to him.

"Merlin, woman. I have been pounding on the door for all of five minutes and you don't even have the common decency to pop your head out and tell me to give you a minute." Diggle grabbed her roughly by the arm and started to drag her across the street to the brush they arrived in. Not a moment after Diggle gripped her arm, he pulled his hand back as though burned, "Fine. Have it your way. But we are leaving. Now. There has been another attack."

Too busy preparing herself to go to the front lines, Hermione doesn't react to Diggle's grip. Hermione lets herself be apparated. When she opens her eyes she notices she is at the apparation point for Number 12 Grimmauld Place, but the spot where Diggle was standing when they arrived is now empty. She had been left. When there aren't but 60 aurors in all of London to fight, Diggle made a detour to drop her off.

Hermione stomped up to the entrance of the Black family house. She had half a mind to take off and scour the spots she had predicted an attack would take place this week, but hadn't any idea where to start.

From the basement, Hermione was able to hear the arrival of the Order members coming back from the attack, or at least those who did return. The groans were unbearable, Hermione was an expert at healing charms but Dumbledore requested she always stay near the books incase a particularly nasty injury came in and she would be able to find the antidote or counter curse.

No requests came down Hermione's pipeline. Hermione had just finished the last portion of her meal and was nodding off at her desk when Kreacher popped back into the basement only minutes after taking away her last plate. "Mistress Hermione, Kreacher has come for Dumbdore. Dumbdore asks that Kreacher bring Mistress Hermione."

Her heart nearly leapt from her chest. Now, after all this time he had finally realized what an asset she could be for the Order. No, she wasn't going to dwell on the nagging feeling she had that he only wanted her now because too many had died in the latest attack. She was going to be a member of The Order of the Phoenix. Think of all the things I could better explain in meetings. They will finally see what I have been trying to say in my reports, and I will be able to update my reports much more quickly because I will be at the battles.

It was everything Hermione could do not to pick Kreacher up and run him up the stairs, he little legs were too slow, they were still in the basement. Doesn't he know there is going to be an Order initiation soon?

Kreacher pushed open the door for Hermione and bowed as he backed out of the room. Hermione had to contain her smile, because although she was getting a much deserved promotion, by the look of Dumbledore's face it was at the cost of many lives.

"Miss Granger," Dumbledore said solemnly. "Have a seat." Hermione began to get a nagging idea that this meeting was not about her becoming an Order member. Hermione sat. "Diggle brought it to my attention that today, just moments after he got word of the attack, you, were missing." Dumbledore took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose. "To an Order member who doesn't know you, that might look suspicious." Hermione sat forward in her seat to protest, but Dumbledore held up his hand. "I am not accusing you, but some will. Molly has already sparked suspicion in the new recruits by scandalizing your...new appearance."

Hermione's shock quickly turned into defiance. She had been living in a hole since graduation and people had already been accusing her of betrayal before she even left the house, "Headmaster, let's be honest. The Order was suspicious of my long before I came to stay in this house."

Dumbledore froze, then nodded. "Miss Granger. We're all very concerned with the direction you are taking. Can you not be content with what Hogwarts has taught you? Very few wizards and witches seek much further education than their professional speciality. Those few wizards who do are the ones we are fighting against."

This time it was Hermione's turn to freeze, "So I am to understand that I have gone as far as I can in the wizarding world under your tutelage?" Hermione paused, "you see, that seems odd. The enemy, who is not residing in these walls, has no qualms about 'furthering their education'."

"That is the very reason members of the Order fear you."

At this point in the conversation Hermione had no reservations about interrupting Dumbledore, "So now they fear me? Just a moment ago you seemed to be trying to say they fear for me, for the path they fear I may take. Now it seems as though you have been allowing a monster to grow in your basement. I am not that monster. I have been best friends with Harry Potter since first year. I have been by his side this whole time. I thought I was helping."

"Miss Granger. It seems as though we have come to an en passe, if you will. I cannot in good conscious allow you the freedom to continue studying the books from the Black library. It seems a majority of the books in your possession have been of the Dark Arts sort. I also cannot allow you to join the Order because no one will consent to be your partner." Dumbledore's face took on an ashen quality, "I'd like to prepose your return to your muggle family. It would only be temporary, of course. You need time away from Dark Arts that have been effecting you so, and the Order needs time to remember you as you were in your first year."

Hermione's back was straight, her shoulders squared, and her face a perfect, emotionless mask. "I'll collect my things and be out by morning." Hermione slowly stood up, make a half curtsey in way of excusing herself and walked calmly out the door, down the hallway, and descended into the basement.

The following eight hours were methodical, emotionless, and did nothing to quiet the burning rage Hermione felt right under the roaring hum she heard in her ears. The books from the Black library were gone, a few books she had purchased while at Hogwarts were missing too. Her potions had all been removed and all her ingredients locked behind enchanted glass. Her notes were gone, the tabula rastious charmed paper was gone and thanks to testing the paper on Ginny the Order had the means to figure out its operation. All that was left for her to do was pack her meager belongings into her trunk. Thankfully, she had her dragon hide bag with her all day. Her few precious items were untouched. Hermione kept having to remind herself: 'everything they took is already in my head'. Kreacher, that thieving wretch, must have taken her personal notes and given them to Dumbledore. Kreacher's theft and her dismissal being so close together was too circumspect for her to ignore. Kreacher popped in sometime in the middle of the night.

"Miss, miss. Kreacher is wondering what is going on. Kreacher was cleaning the upstairs library and all of miss' things are there." Kreacher was wringing his hands together.

Hermione wheeled around at the sound of Kreacher's voice. When he looked up at the end of his questioning and finally met Hermione's eyes, he had to apparate way momentarily. As soon as he was gone though, he feared his punishment more and apparated right back. "You. You little thief." Hermione forced out through her gritted teeth.

Kreacher wailed so horrendously it was enough to snap Hermione out of her anger. Kreacher is just a house elf, he would never have operated without direct orders. The sound of Hermione's controlled breathing calmed Kreacher enough to peek out from behind his bony elf hands. After a pause, Hermione was able to form questions for the elf that wouldn't have him in trouble with whoever was ordering him around. The poor creature took orders from the pureblood fanatic paintings; Hermione didn't intend to add any more undo stress to his life. "Kreacher," she began with almost an eery calm compared to her anger the moment before, "I want you to remember my personal notebook. Do you?" Kreacher's disproportionately large head wobbled up and down. "Is the notebook accessible to and members of the Order or do you have instructions to give it to any member of the Order?" Kreacher clearly didn't know the bounds of his instructions of his instructions to keep quiet and Hermione's unexpected behavior - seemingly wanting the book not to be in the hands of the Order - evaded his explicit instructions of what not to tell the witch.

"Kreacher does not understand what Miss Hermione is asking." Kreacher was weaving around on his short legs, unable to stand still under the hot scrutiny of Hermione's glare.

Hermione bent down to Kreacher's level, "Kreacher, any minute I am leaving this shithole and never coming back. I want to make sure no one in the Order ever finds out what is in that notebook. Does that go against any order you already have?"

"No Miss! Kreacher would be honored to help Miss Hermione. Kreacher sees how hard Miss works and Kreacher would be honored to hide information from the Order. Kreacher already has a great many thin..." Kreacher stopped himself and was clearly searching for the nearest loose object he could take to lob against his skull, but Hermione stopped him and let the corner of her mouth twitch upward. Kreacher immediately took to sending Hermione's belongings to the front door. There wasn't much to send, but by the time Hermione made it to the top of the stairs she could see all of her belongings had be shrunken to fit inside her dragon hide bag, which was hanging on the hat rack next to the door.

It wasn't Hermione's intention to steal out in the middle of the night, but packing her belongings went much more quickly than expected with no books to debate leaving behind. There was no reason to stay until morning. Dumbledore was still sitting at his desk when he heard the front door open. He stood at his window to watch the girl walk to the apparation point. If only he knew forcing her out of the wizarding world would send her directly into the grips of the Dark Arts. Not just any Dark Arts, but the most advanced.


	4. Chapter 4

Snape spent a few days in Diagon Alley, the Order would assume he had gone into his laboratory during his absence, and he needed some potions to show for it. Snape didn't have to prepare himself mentally for his trip back to Grimmauld Place. The beauty of having true allegiance to a cause, is to know when you are working to the betterment of that cause you are doing nothing wrong. Cockily, Snape apparated back to the hallway lined with elf heads. Kreacher was most useful in shifting around the borders of the apperation. As a matter of habit he made his way to the basement door to see how is favorite prisoner was fairing, only to find the door had been sealed. Snape tromped to Alastor's office and had his hand on the doorknob before reigning in his temper. He had to play this carefully, everyone knew of his affinity to the Dark Arts. Snape stepped away from the doorway and went to his potions lab to arrange his new purchases.

At dinner, Snape interrupted the conversation about the nuisance of the paintings; it was, in Snape's opinion, a tired topic. "I see we've finally managed to ensure Granger's proclivity towards the Dark Arts won't make it out of the basement."

Ginny, who since receiving a diploma from Dumbledore a year early, thought herself able to spar with Snape without any repercussions snapped, "Hermione has left for the muggle world, Dumbledore thought it best to remove her from the temptation of magic entirely."

At the opposite end of the table, Tonks snorted, "If we were trying to keep the Dark Arts in the basement we would have made sure you were down there."

No one at the table was able to see how Snape had to force his face to contort into some semblance of indignity. It was subtle, but all of Snape's mannerisms were subtle. 'So the girl is out of the grasp of the Order.' The conversation quickly picked up around him. 'I need to contact Hermione, and after I talk to her I will talk to the Dark Lord.'

The gardens surrounding Hermione's house were her haven for the first couple weeks at home. Her mother's initial enthusiasm for Hermione's arrival had long since worn off and she was left to do as she pleased for most of her days. The odd dinner party, charity event, or filling in for the secretary at the surgery were merely road bumps in her path to complete freedom.

'I want to be free. More than anything in the entire world I want to be free, free to study anything my heart desires, write anything my brain cares to preserve, do anything, see anything, be anyone, know everything. I want it all. I've buried alive since graduation without even the wherewithal to see what was being done to me. No ho, not anymore. I won't let it happen to me again. I can't for the sake of my sanity.'

Hermione took up residence in the carriage house. Her mother refused to let any wizarding 'stuff' into the main house. Reluctantly, Hermione agreed. The Monster Book of Monsters from Hagrid's Care of Magical Creatures class would do a little more than startle ladies' afternoon tea.

Adorning the walls of the carriage house was row upon row of salvaged wizarding books and relevant muggle works. Yet she hadn't touched them since she had arranged them. A neat scroll of parchment was waiting for her ink to stain its pages. Empty notebooks lined the shelf directly above her desk. Potions equipment from an old set she replaced to have fresh ones for her NEWTs were perfectly arranged on the stainless steel counter. Hermione had nicked the workstation from her mother's kitchen remodel the week prior. Sure, all of the books had been read at least once and the potions equipment was unsafe for volatile ingredients, but that had never stopped her before. The first few days of redecorating she could hardly contain her excitement over being out on her own. The excitement didn't last once the renovations were completed. To continue forward in her studies would mean making a conscious decision to continue down a path labeled 'Dark' by all those she formerly admired. The switch in her mind just wasn't there. She couldn't just turn away from everything she had worked so hard for. Hermione sat in the receiving room for three days straight holding a shard of two-way mirror, watching the door to the house everyone had known her to live in. She hardly slept for fear she would miss Harry and Ron running to break down the door and exclaim 'Dumbledore has made a mistake, he doesn't know you like we do, you would never betray us.' At the end of three days, she gave up. She gave up on her friends, on the life she had made for herself, on the fate of the wizarding world, on her future, on everything.

Once a week had passed, Hermione didn't even bother to protest when her mother took her shopping, to fancy brunches, the salon, masseuse, or sauna. This was her life now. If she didn't have someone to share her wizarding life with she had nothing. If she performed magic in front of a muggle, it was all over for her. The smokescreen she had shrouded her muggle life in would be revealed to the Ministry and thus the Order.

Her days passed slowly. Hermione didn't yet have the motivation to reenter muggle society as an active member. For now, she was comfortable basking in the sun of the gardens. All her attempts at darkening her porcelain skin only resulted in a blistering-sunburn. She didn't admit defeat, but decided it may be best to take things slowly.

By the end of the second week, Hermione was still enjoying the outdoors under the cover of thick shade. She had taken to lying in various patches of mulch in the thick of the wild garden to shield herself from the sun. Even on days London was suspended in fog her skin always managed to show a little pink. The need to be under something was just precautionary to the sun's harmful rays. Hermione assured herself she wasn't hiding from anything but sunburn. Hermione lied on her back, hidden in the thick of the rhododendrons, and couldn't notice the speck on the horizon grow larger and larger. Just through the leaves of the taller plants Hermione was able to fixate on a postage stamp of the sky. The patch of blue blinked black and just as quickly returned to blue. Hermione jumped up.

'An owl? Oh Harry, of course he's had to owl me. He is on the run.' Hermione dashed into the carriage house and up to her room thinking the owl must have been unable to see her hidden under the plants. She flung the window open to let the owl in just in time to see a young man, about her age she guessed, unlatch a small, stained-glass window on the second story and sweep the owl inside. She barely got a glimpse of his face and, in hindsight, could have even been a woman with her hair pulled back.

Her own kind. Living in the muggle world. 'They must be refugees in hiding. Maybe they are just guests of the neighbors. Finally, something to do around here. This won't be difficult. I'll just keep an eye on the house.'

With little else to do to occupy her time, keeping an eye open for wizarding activity turned into a stake out. Hermione was desperate. She itched to practice magic. It was four days of nothing. Not just the lack of any wizarding activity, but the house didn't even hint as to having any occupants. Lights illuminated the windows at the same time every day, and the panes blackened at the same time every night as though on a security system's timer. It was a stalemate.

On the morning of the fifth day, Hermione took up her post under a large oak. From there she had a view of the neighbors' house and the open sky. The first three hours were so mind numbing, Hermione almost disregarded the shadow behind the first layer of clouds as a trick of her under-stimulated imagination, but the shadow turned into an owl as it made its descent. 'Another owl, another owl! If only I can get whoever opens the window to see me, seeing them, they will surely have to make contact to obliviate me or something, anything.'

The owl perched on the root of the tree protruding from the ground next to her and held out his leg. The disappointment of getting no further in the mystery of the neighbors racked Hermione's conscience, battling the elation of receiving contact from the wizarding world. The owl, more snobbish by the minute, would not consent to be waylaid by this apparently insolent girl and nipped Hermione's hand to spur her into action. Hermione slowly took the scroll from the owl's leg just to spite the creature, and held the roll in her trembling hands without unsealing it.

'Damn it all to hell', Hermione thought, convinced this was going to be her summons to face charges for practicing illegal magic while at Order headquarters. She ripped the seal off the parchment and was horrified to see her old potions professor's spidery script.

_Mudblood,_

_I hope this letter manages to find you well. Rest easy, your secret is safe with me. _

_I have a proposal. You are in need of a mentor and I am in the position to supply. I, like you, had to pick a specialty and am unable to provide my services. A friend is better suited and his location more convenient. This is not an offer you can choose to decline._

_Sincerely,_

_Half-blood._

_postscript - Refrain from fixating your energy on the neighbors and do be aware of meeting new friends._

Hermione's initial outrage over being address as 'Mudblood' was pacified when she acknowledged Snape's need to communicate in code and half-truths was fueled by necessity: Ministry owls were likely to intercept the letter. Hermione began to pick apart the letter. 'He clearly knows about the half-way house. Snape despises verbose writing or niceties for that matter. Assuring me my secret is safe has to mean he won't tell the Order. He must have some sick sense of respect for people's privacy not to run to Dumbledore and tell him not only have I been practicing Dark Arts in the basement, I've lied about my place of residence. He has a proposal. Here, just a euphemism for a no negotiations command. The bit about meeting new friends is curious. He knows his handwriting is distinct, so I suppose he did suffer a small bit to sign his name Half-blood. I'll accept his half-apology, Merlin knows its the best I'm going to get out of him.' Hermione's eyes whipped up to the house next door as she read the postscript. 'Hah, they are wizards, and they have some connection to Snape.' Hermione triumphantly rolled the parchment and stood. 'Now what do I do?' She didn't have much time to contemplate her predicament because her mother called for dinner though the outdoor speaker.

Dinner was served in the dining room at promptly half-past five. Hermione rushed through every bite. She managed to stay within her mother's rule of no fewer than ten chews per bite, but her mother wasn't pleased with the technicality. Hermione skipped desert to go _not_ fixate her energy on the house next door from the comfort of the carriage house.

The parchment on her desk was unavoidable in light of new events. Hermione slowly lowered herself into the chair she had been avoiding for the past three weeks and began to compose her response.

_Prince,_

_Your deference is greatly appreciated. Even without given the option, I accept. Do you believe in our education? _

_Green._

Hermione chose their mother's maiden names to communicate. It seemed appropriately anonymous. Now, for the task of delivering the letter. 'Snape clearly has some connection with the neighbors. If only I could convince one of their owls to deliver my letter.' It was, admittedly, a terrible plan. Owls are notoriously prideful of their duty to deliver letters directly from the sender to the recipient. Hermione dipped her quill in her ink and scrawled Prince across the front. Hermione pounded her fist on her desk in exasperation, 'I need this letter to get to Snape. He is my only contact in the wizarding world and I have no other options'. Hermione's desperation filled her. Before she had time to lay the quill on the desk, the envelope disapparated from her hand. Never had Hermione seen an in animate object disapparate. Even if it were possible to send an object through the same sequence as in human disappartion, Hermione had no idea where Snape would be, and therefore couldn't possibly have visualized the letter's intended destination.

Since the letter was gone, Hermione had nothing between her and the start of her research. It could not have been more perfect timing to have an unexplained anomaly occur right in front of the tools needed to document and analyze it.

What should have been a momentous event, passed quickly, without even a backward glance. The complete and total dismissal of the Order's concerns, her hope for ever being invited back, everything was gone as soon as Hermione plucked her quill up and scrawled 'wandless casting' across the top of her parchment. The subject was relegated to the antics of a temperamental child in all conversations Hermione had overheard at the burrow during her school years. The professors never attempted to teach the subject either. Hermione couldn't dismiss it as easily. The power she just felt intuitively knowing her envelope was safely in the hands of her professor was unequalled in her academic pursuits.

"Is this not the point of magic? To want something to happen and have the power to make it so. Are incantations an aide to the incapable? That doesn't seem logical, many of the Dark Arts texts used chants and incantations. Many of which came from the founders themselves. Perhaps an incantation is a vehicle to access the same capabilities of a more powerful wizard.' Hermione continued to expand, extrapolate, and revise her ideas. She only put quill to parchment when she was sure she could fully represent all facets of the same argument. 'I need to find a way to stabilize my wandless casting. Children are sent to school to control their outbursts. I specifically remember Professor McGonagall telling my parents Hogwarts would stop my magical outbursts all together. So children are sent to school so they learn to channel their magic through a wand. This restricts any magical output from occurring without the use of a wand. Furthermore, it would be logical for a wizard capable of regulating their magic output to discontinue the use of a wand.' Hermione had to pause to fumble around for a new quill; the nib of her current feather was suffering from her enthusiasm.

'Unless the components of a wand could significantly increase the magic's power, conversely the same could be said for particular uses of magic a wand would actually diminish the power of the caster. My wand is made of vine wood and Dragon heartstring. I can't be sure what the vine wood does to my casting, but a Dragon's heartstring is sure to amplify any offensive aspect of spells. Yes! Ron's core is made of Unicorn hair and he always learned the defensive spells more quickly. Harry's wand has a Phoenix feather and his strength was always the Patronus. The wood must be important. Harry's wand is made of Holly; the wood from the Holly tree is traditionally used in chess pieces. I suppose that could mean the wood would amplify the power of any legilimens spell. What if Voldemort knew this and is using Harry's wand to so easily navigate his mind? Voldemort's wand is of the same core, but his is made of yew wood, or taxus, typically used in making longbows. That seems logical since Voldemort's offensive spells are so powerful. The Elder wand is made of wood from the Elder tree and has a core of Thestral tail hair. A Thestral is a omen of aggression and death, so that would support the Tale of the Three Brother's claim the wand can master death.'

The handwriting at the bottom of the page was cramped and nearly illegible. Hermione couldn't fit any more notes on her scroll and was going to have to recopy them into one of her new notebooks in the morning anyways. She opened the French doors of the carriage house and let herself into the gardens. Maybe only an hour had passed since dinner and the sun had just slipped below the stone wall, casting the garden into shadow. Hermione breathed in the sweet scent of the flowering plants, feeling rejuvenated after her bout of productivity. Standing with her arms slightly away from her sides, Hermione concentrated on the breeze moving her vellus hairs, the ebb and flow of the shifting currents as the wind slipped though the garden.

"The best time of the day, is it not?"

Hermione was so lost in the act of tuning all her perceptions out, it took a moment for her brain to realize she was in a fenced and gated yard, meaning no one should be here. Immediately preparing for an attack, Hermione turned to the direction the male voice had come in. "I'd say it's the best part of the day for _self_-reflection."

"Put your wand down before someone sees you."

The light was too shifty to be sure of anything, much less a muggle to identify a wand. Instant understanding hit Hermione, "You are Snape's friend."

"Using a loose definition of word, yes."

The origin of the voice kept changing, if Hermione couldn't sense his presence she would have guessed the man wasn't even in the garden. Hermione would feel a lot more comfortable if she could look the man in the face. "Come. Sit. We need to talk." Hermione ordered in her no-nonsense voice. The man didn't respond, but she heard the grass rustle as he followed her to a clearing. Manners dictated she seat the guest inside and offer him tea, but like the man said, this is the best time of the day and twilight doesn't last long. She wasn't about to deny herself the small luxury of relaxing outdoors when she had just forsaken everything she had cherished for so long. Following Hermione's lead the man seated himself in the grass next to her. He was close enough to encourage intimate conversation, but far enough to not feel intimidating.

The man turned toward her as he made himself comfortable, his fingers gripped the grass in an unguarded moment of appreciation. He was beautiful. And young. "If I'm to be honest, I expected someone older. Snape said he was raised in the same school of thought I was. Naturally, I assumed he would have to find someone who received their education earlier."

"Severus told me you were interested in the theory of education," the boy paused. Hermione noted her letter had indeed made it into Snape's hands. "Don't you wish to know my name?"

Hermione shook her head, "You didn't introduce yourself. I'm currently standing on a side of the war must people don't like. I figured Snape had arranged this to be anonymous."

"My education wasn't too dissimilar from yours. I was in odd predicaments throughout my schooling. I, too, crafted clever ways to get out of them. That is, of course, in reference to your dealings with a Dolores Umbridge. I, too, don't stand on the side of a war most people appreciate."

His face was so incredibly familiar, yet she couldn't place it. In her mind, she saw the photograph of the man but she couldn't convince her mind to step back and give her the context in which she had seen it. Typical Hermione Granger, cannot see the forest for the trees. "You look so familiar to me. I can't quite place it."

"I am your neighbor after all, we haven't formally met though." Hermione nodded absentmindedly, not convinced. "Before Grindelwald came to power, there was a different school of though governing the institutions of education in Europe. All students were required to graduate with proficiency in all subject matter available. Graduates could then, if they chose, go on to higher level learning at schools or in an apprenticeship to hone their craft. Others could go immediately into the work force and train within their professional programs. Grindelwald didn't choose a specialty; he sought guidance from masters in all areas of magic and became somewhat of an expert in each area. At least as much of an expert as he could, when he was dividing all his efforts. Since then, school boards have feared such broad-spectrum education. Students were able to decide which NEWT level examinations to take; most favored dropping a subject or two to keep their grades up. Not long after, students were able to discontinue entire areas of study. Schools were graduating unbalanced wizards. Hogwarts and Beauxbatons, and to a lesser degree Drumstrang, were producing moderately skilled wizards in one area of study and deep, deep deficiencies in all others. In our era of learning, the average wizard graduates with only four NEWT levels."

"I suppose that make us something of a threat, with twenty-four NEWTs between us, Tom." Hermione stood to leave. "I need to process all this."

Voldemort stood up quickly, "Wait. Books, for our next meeting." Voldemort took off his worn leather messenger bag and held it out as though it were an olive branch. Hermione took the satchel and didn't look back.


	5. Chapter 5

While Tom was talking, Hermione had trouble forcing her brain to let go of the photograph. Her brain was a finicky operator. As soon as she got excited over the comprehension of the wizarding education system, the stranglehold on Tom's face relaxed and Hermione was able to remember the entire picture - a Hogwarts trophy, school uniform, a Slytherin crest, and a badge that could have been for prefect or Head Boy, but the photograph was too poor quality to tell.

Understanding always seems to be instantaneous for Hermione as soon as she has all the pieces to a puzzle. She rarely has to walk her mind though the steps of connecting all the bits of disjointed information. She knew where she had seen the picture before, seven years ago, before she even boarded the Hogwarts Express. She wanted to run, needed to distance herself from the rich timbre of his voice so her brain could function, but the prospect of learning new information was impossible to ignore. The books there must have been waiting for her to read, were too tempting. Hermione couldn't immediately flee upon her recognition of his face.

The process to stir her body into action began well before her limbs showed any recognition of the impulses sent to them. In moments of intense emotion, brain function accelerates and outside stimuli seem slower. Hermione's brain was running on all tracks and her body couldn't catch up. Her mind was already inside the carriage house, frantically searching for that old book. It wasn't even a question of whether she would take the satchel or not, her body acted according her most basic reflexes.

'I have to be sure, I have to know for certain the boy is my gardens is Tom Marvolo Riddle.'

Finally, _Seat of Power: Headmasters of Hogwarts_ was in her hands - a biography of the Office of the Headmasters of Hogwarts. No one of any importance bothered to read this book. Hundreds of other, frankly, more entertaining and well-written accounts had been published. How this one even made it to the printing press is a mystery. She remembered plucking it from the shelves of Obscurus Books during her first trip to Diagon Alley before her first year. The cashier chuckled as she set the book on the counter, 'Quite the overzealous first year, ehh?' This one here, he tapped the thick hide of the book, 'is very poorly written, too disjointed for most folks to get through the first 15 pages.' Hermione was not about to be demeaned by a dolt of a shopkeeper too unintelligent as to risk losing a sale. She paid spitefully and refused to admit how boorish the tome really was until it came time to pack for her first year. She had read it once already and there were so many books in the place she was going. That was enough of an excuse as any when it came to leaving the offending book in Kensington. Fortunately for her, it wasn't in the basement of Order headquarters when her things had been confiscated like a common Azkaban contraband cleaning.

Her fingers had already found Armando Dippet's chapter. Everything within these few pages had been sensationalized in Rita Skeeter's 'exclusive look into the life of Headmaster Dippet'. The plagiarism would go unnoticed. Hardly anyone would be able to draw a connection between the dry statement of facts in _Seat of Power_ and Skeeter's dime novel _Armando Dippet: Master or Moron?_ Predictably the most press-worthy page of the entire book, Skeeter missed. There in the middle of Dippet's chapter was a photograph of Dippet handing an engraved trophy to an unnamed boy. The caption only credited Dippet for the giving of the award for Special Services to the School. The recipient of the trophy remained unnamed, but it didn't take Rowena Ravenclaw to deduce the boy's name.

Hermione deeply pressed her fingertips into her scalp. Nothing came from Hermione's search except for the distinct satisfaction of knowing she was correct, again. That, and the creeping certainty her betrayal was far from over.

'I could have killed him, just now. Just moments ago I had the chance to end this, all of this. I could put Harry out of his misery. Free the wizarding world. I knew, for absolute certain, I was sitting next to Lord Voldemort - a terrorist, murderer, and worse. Everything would be over if I had drawn my wand and uttered Avada Kedavra. It didn't even occur to me though. He was just so calm, so suspiciously calm. As if I didn't even necessitate the energy for him to remain on guard. So inordinately calm. I have nowhere to go and I am contemplating the murder of the only wizard offering me asylum. Snape is by all means out. He thought it more pressing to tattle on me to Voldemort than respond to my letter.'

For hours, Hermione sat at her desk deliberating her next step. The lights from the carriage house were sure to ignite the ire of the meddlesome old lady living across the alley. She was always such a light sleeper; even the slightest disturbance woke her. During lower school, the rumor mill would invariably spread Hermione's latest infraction. Before Hermione even heard of Hogwarts, she would always come out to the carriage house and perch on her father's sedan to practice her ability to move things and do things without the judgmental eye of her nanny. No matter how hard she tried not to, she always made some sort of noise and the old hag would tell anyone with ears of her latest rave, or of the Granger girl doing marijuana in the dead of night, or any other degree of scandal.

'Is he even offering me asylum? Will I be a test, an experiment? Or an equal? I don't even know what he wants from me.' Hermione played out every possible scenario in her mind, but it was a circuitous process. Every train of thought always managed to warp into her ultimate betrayal of Harry.

'But how can I betray someone whose cause has already betrayed me? Harry and the Order claim to be fighting for equality, but on whose terms? I have just been all but excommunicated from the wizarding world, my world, and preemptively banned from fighting with them. I am their cause,' Hermione thought exasperatedly. 'Molly was always saying while we were in school that I am the exemplar of muggleborn intelligence and I disprove their entire pureblood edict. My words, not hers, of course. I can do everything mudbloods aren't supposed to be able to do. I am everything Voldemort is fighting against. So, why is he offering to teach me?'

Just as Hermione would do in her notes, she went back-and-forth with options until she could make an informed decision. She decided she made her decision the moment she walked out the door of Number 12 Grimmauld Place. For three weeks she had been fooling herself into thinking she still had a decision to make. Ever since she picked up her quill to continue studying controlled casting, she has been lying to herself.

She prepared for bed with white noise roaring in her ears. She was emotionally exhausted from the trauma of the day. It took a considerable amount out of her resolve to admit she was no longer fighting for the 'light side', for good, and for the principles ingrained in her since her induction into the magical world. She sleepily crawled into bed and lay unmoving until morning.

The morning dawned with the hope of a new day. The leaves had been washed clean with dew, and the day stretched ahead with infinite possibilities. In the kitchen a note was lying on the counter:

_Darling, your father and I have made an impromptu trip to Geneva. We are scheduled for return next week. Please remind Mridati not to clean the carriage house. Our Love_

Without her parent's scheduling, the possibilities were endless. First, she was going to eat some breakfast directly out of the icebox. Hermione loved to break rules. Nothing big, but anything she could do with complete confidence she wouldn't get caught, she'd do in an instant. For example, her favorite rule to break was no eating out of the Tupperware. With no parents around to enforce the rule, she could get off scotch free, and get the satisfaction of knowing the next time her mother pulled the fruit tray from the icebox her mother would have no idea. It was the principle of the matter.

Breakfast left her giddy at the potential contained in her new books, and she zealously began her studies. There were only five books in the messenger bag, the thickest of the two she had already read from the Black's library. The remaining three, _The Conservation of Magic_, _Alma_, and _Infinito Totallum,_ were all books on the origins of magic. Each vehemently declared the theories of the others to be incorrect and extolled their own theory with more than a hint of propaganda.

_The Conservation of Magic_, by Sandiver Mohr was the most scientific, but even the author seemed to admit the trouble in quantifying all the magic in the Universe. Hermione had heard of this text before. Tonks often vilinizaed her family's strict adherence to the pureblood code. Once, she said, "If they ever would get _Conservation of Magic_ unstuck from up their behinds, they might actually be able to see how dumb they are." Hermione deduced this text must have been used in teaching prejudice to young purebloods.

Once the author quit dwelling on muggles stealing magic from deserving purebloods, Hermoine had trouble finding fault in his work. His experiments were well documented and strictly quantitative. He set a baseline for magical output and quantified magic from there. Most of his experiments involved alternately casting protection and destruction charms on an inanimate object. In the subsequent 319 pages of experimentation, Mohr's theory held. Hermione was reluctant to admit the accountability and thoroughness of Mohr's work. He did, after all, believe in taking back the magic that was allegedly stolen from purebloods.

Hermione found the most interesting portion of his work to be his conclusions on the affectivity of protection charms in general. Mohr found when an offensive spell is cast less powerfully than a protective spell, the protective spell absorbs the power of the attack to further enhance the protection. The bad news was Mohr's discovery that when an offensive spell penetrated a protective spell, the power from the protective spell turned of the very thing it was supposed to be protecting and amplified the effect of the offensive spell. In other words, if you were dueling a master, you best bet was to just stand there. Ideally, your protective spell should diffuse the power of the attack. If the offensive spell had ten Mohrs of negative energy and a defensive spell was cast with only seven Mohrs of power, instead of the resulting attack being diminished to three Mohrs of power, the attack was amplified to 17 Mohrs.

Most problematically was the author's inability to gage the power of magic absolutely. In the same way muggle scientists have trouble quantifying temperature, Mohr was unable to reduce his testing environment to a magic vacuum. Muggle scientists theoretically quantify absolute zero as the pure crystalline state were there is zero uncertainty of the state of the substance, but Mohr was unable to do that.

_Alma_ was the most controversial of the three. Alma, meaning giving, stated the ability and capacity to practice magic was given from one magical being to another. The author claimed every magical being could trace their magical lineage back to Merlin himself or a claviger. He claims a claviger is a person who is able to tap into the magical grid and withdraw power directly from the source. His whole argument is entirely theoretical, so Hermione has a hard time finding holes in his argument. Her main point of contention is where her conclusions of his argument and his, don't meet.

'If I chose to assume this author, this Nicolas Sadi Carnot, has merit, I would assume all mudbloods are clavigers. It would explain their ability to perform magic when all others in their families could not. But Carnot, a prueblood, claims there can only be a handful of clavigers alive at a time. Far fewer than mudbloods.'

Carnot just automatically jumped to the conclusion there were only a set number of clavigers and didn't give a reason for it. He was so sure of his conclusions he didn't properly justify them. It was infuriating to say the least. Hermione was finished taking words at face value.

_Albus Dumbledore, often quote_d third book,_ Infinito Totallum by Tito_. Never having been aware, Dumbledore wasn't quoting himself; Hermione was a little shocked to see the words published verbatim. This ideology seemed to be the most easily explainable. There is magic in everything around us, magical beings are able to harness that power and manipulate the magic from the environment. Magical persons are simply more aware of the magic within them and able to consciously control it. Muggles, live in the same world wizards do, but they are unaware of the magic around them.

'This is all well and good, but if I dismiss Carnot's work for having no proof, this one has to go too. The theory is wonderful, but Dumbledore always explained it as something we only had to teach to willing muggles and they would become wizards too.'

Hermione wasn't certain what conclusions she was supposed to draw from these books. The two from the Black library were pitiful discussions on how pureblood wizards are supposed to be able to strengthen their magic.

'I need to talk to Tom.'

The mansion next door was imposing on a good day, downright ominous on any other. The fog held London in a clammy grip since midmorning, but Hermione was too busy reading to notice the suppressive hand until she was contemplating going though it. Just as she was about to step into the night Riddle rounded the corner of the main house like he hadn't just broken and entered.

Hermione was able to observe his approach and felt better composed than their prior meeting. "Good evening, Hermione."

"Tom." Riddle could take the lead in this scenario. Hermione preferred to keep her cards close to her chest until she could determine the lay of the land.

Riddle settled himself on the porch were Hermione had stopped. He even seemed unsure of where to start for a moment. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything," she breathed.

"Start simply."

Hermione took a breath to still her thoughts, "why can I do magic?"

"I said simply, not at the beginning." Hermione made to defend her question but Riddle continued, "I thought you might ask why we're here. We come from a different school of thought than most. Together we could learn from each other."

Despite being flattered by Riddle's acknowledgement that she had something to offer, Hermione didn't let Riddle's evasive tactics fool her. If being a prefect had taught her anything, it was how to spot it. "What, specifically, do you do Tom?"

"Ah, the heart of the matter. Did I give myself away with the reading material? I'm in international politics."

"Right, I'm well aware of your politics. Which makes me wonder why you haven't killed me yet."

Riddle was staring directly into Hermione's eyes, "I couldn't if I tried, Hermione. And those politics you read about in the paper are part hobby, part deception. The politics I'm invested in are more of a covert nature."

Hermione's face hardened into inscrutable intensity. It was a lot to process. "And if I agree to your terms."

"We become research partners in some areas, you my apprentice in others." Riddle reached out and gripped Hermione's wrist, flipping her palm upwards, and seemingly realizing the awkwardness of the gesture, dropped her wrist back onto her lap.

"What assurances do I have you won't kill me?"

Riddle had been forcibly controlling his facial emotions for all his interactions with Hermione. Until now. "You're not listening to me," he snapped. Now he was standing, Riddle had always been a tall man and compounded with Hermione's small stature, the effect was imposing. He began to manically chuckle as he walked toward the steps. Hermione knew instantly the whole set up had been too good to be true. He was too kind, too handsome for him to be sincere. "Come. Bring your wand." Riddle set his wand on the porch and walked ten meters away from Hermione's position on the steps. "You want to avenge the death of Harry Potter's parents? The insanity of the Longbottoms? Everything that has gone wrong in my 'reign of terror'? Now's your chance Hermione Granger. Seize the moment. I'm unarmed."

This was the moment. This was what the entire ministry had hoped for, what she had been contemplating this morning. But Hermione was frozen in indecision; he was her only chance to remain in the wizarding world. "I can't do it. You're everything I have right now." Riddle moved a step towards her with his hand outstretched. Before Hermione could protest against the voice in her mind, her wand arm rose, and her vocal chords roared, "Avada Kedavra!" Hermione waited for the jet of green light to flare from her wand's tip, but nothing happened. Her wand hand began to tingle, then burn, like over stimulated nerve endings. She gasped and looked to see Riddle clutching his wrist. "What. Are. You. Doing." Hermione gasped between breaths.

Riddle had made it to the front porch and reached for her hand. Instantly, as their fingers touched, the pain subsided. "Our connection. I had to make sure it worked."

"And if it didn't you would have died!"

"The Killing Curse has to be truly meant to kill someone. Most castings are misfires that cause more damage than they're worth. It was very low risk."

Hermione lay panting on the cool marble of her porch. The pain was long gone, but concentrating on her breathing seemed like the safest option at this point. "Tom." Hermione turned her head to peer at Riddle sitting on the stairs by her feet. "When can we start?"

The air blew from Riddle's lungs and a smirk tugged on the hardened planes of his face. "Right now. We have a week before your parents return."


	6. Chapter 6

Sorry for the delay, moving, ect…enjoy.

Tom raised himself up to leave. "Come with me," he ordered and clasped Hermione's forearm to drag her in the right direction.

Hermione startled, 'I need books! My notes! We can't leave yet. I have too much to prepare. I need a contingency plan in case this is a trap.' Often, when Hermione had too much to say building in her head, she resorted to unreasonable questions. Ones she knew she wasn't going to get answers to before the words could even come from her mouth. "Wait. Where are we going?"

"Asking where we are going does not change the destination we are going to. A modus operandi to live by: do not ask questions of others when you are capable of deducing the answers for yourself."

Indignantly, like a scolded child, Hermione immediately fired back, "Often, it is wise to let others do the work for you, particularly when the result is achieved faster yet with equal accuracy." Hermione when wrenched her arm from Tom's fingers, "My MO: I do not like to be touched."

Emotions were tangibly flaring out of control. Voldemort seemed to deliberate keeping his rebuttal to himself, but neither of the pair was known for being mellow. "I refuse to make this arrangement into a guardianship of a petulant child." Voldemort gesticulated with his hands at his sides in an attempt to control his emotion, but unable to completely stifle it. "Scores of people would, literally, kill to be in your position and you taunt me with some muggle, autistic bullshit about not liking to be touched."

The give and take of Hermione and Voldemort's argument had moved them into the gardens, Hermione inching away from Voldemort and he steadily pursuing her. "If I even knew what this arrangement was I could attempt to keep the status quo, but seeing as specifics are outside the realm of possibility, I'm making do with what little information I have. And 'muggle, autistic bullshit'. Really, Tom? That's the first thing you think of? I'm sure at the orphanage you were full of hugs. I could even venture a guess that you've heard that before, a long, long time ago. I just. Don't. Like. It." Hermione's words were volatile, fueled by her uncertainty, but her actions were those of fear.

Moments passed with both combatants tensed for the next barb. Finally, and with great deliberation, Tom exhaled the breath he didn't realize he had been holding. "Hermione," he began slowly. "There is much that can be gained by our alliance. Magics that have no relevance to the war, to a good side or a bad side, only to the advancement and rediscovery of magic itself. I need to move freely around you and with you. I need to apparate you to places you have never been. I do not need to be distracted by your discomfort and your discomfort may get us killed. What needs to happen for this to work?"

Hermione didn't know how to respond, Voldemort's uncanny ability to seethe with emotion one moment and be completely rational the next was off-putting. As a child it was unusual for her to be touched. Later in life her teachers began to think it an issue, and Merlin the doctors, they all collaborated the same story: slightly autistic. Her parents could only be comforted by the fact that their child suffered from a form of autism directly associated with exceptionally high levels of intelligence. Yet, Tom must have suffered from the same diagnosis, only in an orphanage they probably weren't able to identify the genius associated with it. For the briefest of moments Hermione actually felt sorry for him. "You know don't you? You know why, so how could you just initiate contact with me?"

"I know I am stronger than you."

"And I know I am weaker than you."

"You have to trust that I won't use that strength against you."

"I can't," Hermione breathed. Her heart was pounding; her emotions were running wild; questions about Harry and Ron firing rapidly though her mind.

"Then you aren't going to like this." In an instant Tom wrapped his arms around her body. Hermione's body tensed by reflex, but before so could even think to push him away, the familiar tug of apparation was immediately overwhelmed by a powerful force applied from all directions, and the picturesque view of the Granger's garden was gone.

Days, hours, minutes, or seconds later Hermione was soaking wet. And naked. And notably not spliched. Her mind was reeling, clearly she had just apparated, but they must have travelled through quite a few anti-apparation wards or travelled at least a thousand meters - almost unheard of in the wizarding world and definitely a record for side-along apparation.

Hermione began treading water and was suddenly struck by a decidedly late streak of modesty. She made to cover herself before realizing the black sheen on the surface wasn't a reflection, but the color of the opaque liquid itself. "Sorry about our clothes. You would have had to take them off anyways and that kind of mass makes a lot of difference traveling great distances," Tom explained while depositing their wands outside of the tank they were floating in. After he was done tinkering at the edge he moved closer to Hermione saying, "here's how this is going to work: you will hold my hand, you will not let go when you start to panic, and you will be okay."

Voldemort paused.

Pure and blinding terror ensued. Hermione's legs and arms clamped to her sides in the full-body bind. There was no time to wax philosophical about the justice of the world, betrayal, or the fate of her body when her lifeless corpse was pulled from the liquid Hermione was more and more convinced was blood the further she sank to the bottom. True to his word, Tom's hand was firmly clasped her Hermione's but it was little comfort.

'I'm going to die. I'm going to die a traitor to the cause. I didn't even muss up my room so it would look like I struggled. But after starting my new notebooks, who would believe me anyway.' With that thought, Hermione's body seized unnaturally as her brain forced her body to seek oxygen. The shock from the event caused her mind to go blank much before the pain of drowning registered.

To Hermione's left, Voldemort had been calmly waiting to feel Hermione's body seize in reflex. He extricated his fingers from her hand because the sensation would be too great. Through Voldemort was adept at holding his breath, his body surprised him by gasping nearly fifteen seconds before he was prepared. The shock of flooding his lungs with a liquid that burned like fire was too much for even Voldemort to endure. He left consciousness only seconds after Hermione.

Hermione woke alone and in a panic. She frantically patted her pockets for her wand and was relieved to find it at her hip. Instinct demanded she catalogue her surroundings. The tall matte grey walls to two of her sides rose at least twelve feet, they appeared to be part of a corridor, not thirty feet away the first of many breaks in the unnaturally homogenous walls started. Hermione ran to the nearest one and poked her head around the corner. Shrouded in poor light, Hermione was able to determine that it was a parallel corridor to the first, though shorter, and ended in a turn rather than dead end. Both halls were empty.

A maze. A giant maze. Hermione scolded herself for not realizing it sooner. It was exactly like the maze from the Triwizard Tournament, but colder and suspiciously empty.

"Hermione," Voldemort's voice said as though he were standing right next to her. The commanding tone was starting to rub her the wrong way, but she found it oddly comforting to know he was at least stuck here with her. "You have to figure this out, this is your maze."

'Great,' Hermione thought. 'He has a front row seat to watch me make my way though this thing and judge me.'

"No, I'm at the other end of the maze, only this is a maze your mind constructed," Voldemort responded to Hermione's thoughts.

The gaps in the walls closed around Hermione as soon as her brain registered the fact that she was going to have to navigate the monstrosity. Before she could even begin the maze, she found herself trapped in the single, long corridor she started in. 'How do I get to him? I'm stuck!'

"You aren't asking the right questions." Voldemort's snobbish voice declared omnipotently. His perfect annunciation did nothing to bolster Hermione's resolve. Everything looked impenetrable.

"But where even are we?" The wall in front of Hermione dissolved and opened into the corridor that had been there, but this time it was another dead end.

"We are physically in the tank, but we are experiencing a construct of your mind."

"How are you here with me?" Another wall fell, but Hermione was disappointed to find only another dead end.

"I am in the tank too. Think harder Hermione."

"I am thinking. This feels real, I really do feel trapped," Hermione reached out to feel her enclosure only to find the slippery feeling of the walls didn't match the rough texture she saw on the walls. She ran her fingers over the walls thinking deeply. "The liquid in the tank, what is it?" Hermione waited at the wall expectantly. Nothing happened. She looked back into the corridor, further down the wall another gap had been opened and she rushed through it.

"That was quicker than I expected. It is an oxygen saturated synthetic medium often used in advanced sensory deprivation tanks."

Questions were stacking up in Hermione's mind, the most pressing one being why was Voldemort doing all this, but now she knew she had to ask the right questions. She began to prioritize the questions in her mind. Every new answer would bring a slew of new questions so she had to pick carefully. Most likely any question she didn't ask the first time was going to be forgotten by the onslaught of new questions.

"Did you first hear of me during the war?"

Voldemort's laugh was surprisingly at ease, "No."

Multiple walls fell around Hermione, but she didn't move. She was waiting for him to continue. "No? That's all I get? NO." No response met Hermione's display.

This maze isn't like any maze you sketch out on paper; Hermione's mind had constructed a veritable labyrinth. With the last question, a swath had been cut out of the maze forty feet in every direction. Leaving only the bottom couple of feet of what had once been solid walls. Hermione spotted a Penrose staircase and wondered what train of thought would have kept her in that portion of the maze. Hermione moved forward, passing multiple avenues, before determinedly standing at a new dead end.

Hermione spoke deliberately this time. Knowing Voldemort was not inclined to give her all the necessary information up front, but also not being too specific as to limit his response. "What motivation do you have to continue with the politics you call a hobby?"

"The organization I am involved in doesn't disapprove of my extracurricular activities, which is a generous allowance considering what we are working towards. They happen to meet the same ends: the protection of all magical people." Vast swaths of walls were cut down during Voldemort's words.

Hermione did not advance into the newly cleared section. She looked meek and small in the widening enclosure. "Do those protections extend to people like me?"

"Yes."

The last of the maze fell away, all of it - the ground, the walls, the distance between Hermione and the end of the maze - everything except the last remaining six walls, a cube.

"Can I trust you?" Hermione whispered. The cube dissolved away, leaving only Tom.

"Yes, can I trust you?"

Hermione nodded, unable to speak. Looking at her feet in an attempt to escape the scrutiny of Tom's stare, Hermione was first to notice the influx of water. Tom immediately moved behind Hermione and wrapped his arms securely around her body. The water was rising fast. Hermione desperately wanted to cry out, to awaken, but only allowed herself to cling to Tom's forearms as the water began to violently slosh them around. Hermione was only able to catch her breath when the waves thrust them to the surface. Most of her attempts at catching a breath of air from above the water resulted in violently hacking up the liquid she had inhaled instead.

Thrashing around in the waves her mind had conjured was not a far cry from the reality she awoke to. Arms pulled at her from every direction. Huge palms whacked her small back. A military surplus blanket thickly suppressed her attempts at movement. Male voices called out for a mediwitch, but silenced as Hermione heaved black liquid all over their white marble floor. Two fingers grabbed her face and wrenched her head up. Hermione's sight was filled with Voldemort's smirking face, "welcome back."

Voldemort rose to leave and the man who had pulled Hermione out of the tank took his place behind Voldemort. They filed out the door without another word.

The pearly floor in front of Hermoine absorbed the black liquid she had just coughed up, the floor itself was incapable of taking on fluid, but a clever charm had made it appear so. 'So this is a wizard's floor," the thought dawned on Hermione. Though it may seem on obvious conclusion, she had just assumed Voldemort had transported her to a random, unknown location to continue her training in private. Hermione slowly gathered the wherewithal to assess her surroundings.

In early throws of sunlight, the room was not nearly as ominous. The room could have held the most gruesome torture device and the light spilling though the valleys in the mountains would cast a forgiving light on them. This particular room, however, was already beautiful in its own right. The marble floor Hermione had not been able to notice earlier caught the light in a spectacular array of color. Tiny clasts of carbonate were acting as prisms, the reflecting light often separating into a perfect spectrum of color.

Hermione ran her hand along the rim of the tank trying to process everything that had happened. She could only remember bits and pieces of the dream she just had, but the feeling of complete surrender to Tom lay thickly in her mind.

In her revere, Hermione's fingers caught on fabric. There, by the side of the tank, was a neatly folded stack of plain, white fabric and a rope. Hermione discarded the thick and unwieldily blanket she had been warm in. After some awkward negotiations with the bolt of fabric that unfurled, Hermione was able to fashion some sort of abaya. Only then did it occur to her that the rope must indicate the garment is a kolpos.

With too impeccable of timing to be a coincidence, Voldemort swept through the door wearing a similarly plain garment. "Come I have lots to show you."

Hermione interjected for Voldemort to wait, but found herself following him anyway, "I want to talk about this. We need a plan, a course of action. We need to figure this out."

Voldemort did not even slow his pace, "here, we do not tell each other truths, we must convince each other of them. In that vain the first thing I would like to do is introduce you to my death eaters. Don't cower silly girl. You should know better than to believe everything you read." Voldemort was a commanding presence, when he and Hermione rounded the corner into the great room, every head in the room turned. All five of them. Voldemort gestured for the nearest to rise and come forward, "Alecto Carrow: condensed matter casting, superfluidity. Antonin Dolohov: discovered Prions - a new biological principle of infection, also, skilled philosopher of population virus dymanics. Augustus Rookwood: humbles us all, able to quill even the most boastful reports into startlingly dry declarations of fact. Thorfinn Rowle: our literary genius who portrays us with a challenging vision of wizard's vulnerability. Leonid Avery: uses arithmancy to extrapolate collective decision making." Hermione was shaking hands furiously. With no time to process the information she was being given, she filed it away to pick apart later. "Well five out of seven, looks like you only have Lucius Malfoy and Severus Snape to meet, but I suppose you've already met them in their public capacity."

"Only seven?" Hermione squeaked out. At the World Cup she surely had seen dozens, the Prophet had reports of many, many more.

"There are eight of us. Nine if you pass muster." Voldemort stared down his nose condescendingly. "Those people you see out on the streets with their wives' black linens draped over their heads aren't my death eaters." Voldemort laughed even more condescendingly. "I see Dumbledore failed to clarify his personal dispute with me is much different than the Order's need to quell the raging impersonators. Typical. Don't blame yourself girl, that decrepit old man could fool a snake into eating its own tail if only to make his own ouroboros."

Hermione felt inclined to trust him, trust the man who had been burned into her consciousness as dangerous and evil. All that didn't seem to matter now. All that mattered was learning more. Learning what these powerful men used their knowledge to do. And learning how she could do it too.

Thorfinn, the literary, stepped forward, "Welcome to Isis. We've been waiting for you."


	7. Chapter 7

I own none of their ideas but can only weave them into this new interpretation. Credit should go to those I consciously draw from: Good Will Hunting, The Matrix, The Lost Symbol, anything by Virginia Woolfe, Inception, and others I can't remember right now.

It was simply too much to take in all at once. By the time she made it to her quarters, Hermione was exhausted. She could barely even muster enthusiasm for the cornucopia of books and manuscripts lining the walls. The distinct injunction between what she was given to wear and her ornate surroundings was jarring. Animal pelts covered every available surface. Hermione wanted to be offended, but it felt too right to fight the overwhelming urge to sleep.

Day and night were indistinguishable though the thick draperies. Time seemed to have no place in this world.

Awakening to the almost intangible feel of over-one-thousand count bed linens is a luxury no one should die without experiencing. Hermione reveled in it. Squirming around in quality sheets took a little of the indignity out of being caught frolicking in the bed covers. Hermione abruptly stopped mid-roll. By Voldemort himself.

"I tried to give you more time, but it seems pertinent to remind you. Your parents will be home in 72 hours and I'd like to have you returned before then."

"I fail to see how you are capable of fully informing me about Isis in 72 hours."

Voldemort was already to the door when he responded, "who ever said you would be?"

Hermione determinedly set about untangling herself from her mess of sheets. She was too furious to acknowledge Voldemort would be long gone by the time she got her fighting feet underneath her. Prepared to release all her aggression upon the first capable ears, Hermione was even more perturbed to come face-to-face with a house elf.

"My Lord tells Tinkerbell to have Misses ready as soon as misses is out of bed. Misses is out of bed. Tinkerbell is ready to have Misses ready as soon as Misses is ready to be ready." The elf tapered off towards the end of her speech. She had talked herself in circles and couldn't remember her next line. "Tinkerbell is sorry Misses. Tinkerbell as been preparing for years to take care of Misses and Tinkerbell cannot remember whats Tinkerbell has been remembering to say."

Hermione considered herself to be fluent in house-elf linguistics, so had no problem responding. "Tinkerbell should not say a thing. I can ready myself, thank you."

Tinkerbell wildly flung herself to the floor with more force than can be accredited to gravity and wailed, "Tinkerbell is so sorry to offend my misses. Tinkerbell should be better. Tinkerbell must practice more."

Dumbfounded at how her simple words had backfired so quickly, Hermione thought how to best rectify the situation, and quickly. "Wait. You are Tinkerbell. _The_ Tinkerbell? I have been waiting for years to meet you. I could be helped by no house-elf save one, _my_ TInkerbell." Tinkerbell was spread dejectedly across the floor, but managed to swivel her little head Hermione's direction to listen. Her pea colored head was shiny with tears, but she slowly managed to arrange all her little, green-bean shaped limbs around her and rise.

Tinkerbell stood for a moment in stunned amazement, before sharply turning to Hermione and jabbing a tiny finger in Hermione's side. "Tinkerbell is late!" Hermione's bedclothes fell away; a refreshing breeze briefly grazed her skin, but just as quickly was covered by muggle trousers, blouse, and shoes. All the while Hermoine was being thrust towards the door by an unnaturally strong house elf.

The thick oak door slammed shut in Hermione's face. A voice over her shoulder noted, "you do know after that speech you're stuck with her, and she's just a baby, so that'll be awhile."

"You!" Hermione exclaimed in stunned surprise. "You enslave baby house elves!" She trembled in rage, furious for expecting a decent explanation.

"Come, Hermione. I have a lot to show you. I will feel comfortable debating politics with you when you are better informed." His dispassionate voice was a sharp contrast to argument Hermione prepared herself for.

It took a calming breath to enunciate her argument. "I would like to think of myself as being equally informed as you at my age, perhaps with a different focus." Hermione's greatest strength was to remove herself, emotionally, from the situation to logically respond. No one could ever take that away from her. Even with the most infuriating opponent.

"Open your eyes Hermione. We are here. Together." Voldemort had paused long enough to gesture between their two bodies, both close enough to be considered friendly. "Is that not contradiction enough to what you have been spoon fed down your pipe in that hovel? Yes, Hermione, yes. You are just as well read as I was, but were I had my back turned to the institution controlling me, you seem to be blinded into submission by it."

The silence wove between them. Pulling them together, weaving a sense of understanding. Knitting an unspoken bond.

An unbidden thought prompted Hermione's next question, "You have an answer for everything. Everything has a place and a place for everything. What about the small things? Things other people forget about." Voldemort patiently waited for her to continue. "The animals."

Voldemort's eyebrows furrowed in confusion, "what about them?"

"My room is covered in furs. Covered. But every person I have seen wears the same simple mantle. Why the excess with the accommodations?"

"I suppose that's as good a start as any. Let us go to the kitchens."

Nothing in the wizarding world could have prepared Hermione for Isis' kitchens. Since the compound was isolated in the Rocky Mountains, the entire set up had to be self-sufficient. Greenhouses lined the mountainside like low-lying barracks. Hermione noticed their spiny peaks rising from the foliage immediately. The single, large window she stood before framed the entire kitchen, to each side of her, house elves filed in from the hillside. Elves crisscrossed in front of the window, baskets full of vegetables went to the left, drawn and quartered animals went to the right. None of the elves took notice of Voldemort and Hermione's position.

Voldemort reached from Hermione's arm. He took her through the archway to the carnivorous side. Far too few turns later to have covered so much ground, Hermione found herself in the sun and surrounded by animal hides. They were stretched skins tanning in the sun. "Just because the meat you see served is detached from reality, does not mean the people who prepare it are. All the skins from your room are from animals served at Isis or found incurably injured." A cold wind caused Hermione to notice for the first time Voldemort was wearing a causal suit. "We're dressed for a trip into muggle society. Are you ready?"

Hermione could only nod. The revelations kept coming, this one shaking the foundations her beliefs were based on more than any other. Appreciation for the natural world didn't coincide with her internal image of the reapers and destroyers she had imagined.

They landed on a hillside close to a busy automobile turnpike. It was dark and from this distance Hermione could only imagine the bodies of the cars behind their lights. Voldemort settled into the hillside. It struck Hermione that he must sit on the ground often. His posture was just as relaxed as he was in her garden. Hermione settled with her back to him, incapable of acknowledging the intensity in his eyes.

"From a few kilometers away the freeway flows like a river." Hermione didn't know what to expect coming here, but his melodic voice describing the scenery was not it. Hermione was able to sit in comfortable silence. Just watching the cars float down the black river cutting through the landscape. "See those cars," Voldemort pointed over Hermione's shoulder, aligning his arm with Hermione's perspective as best he could, "the ones merging. All those cars merging from the on-ramp push some cars into the next lane and cause the others to compress. Exactly like a stream merging with a river."

Hermione's mind was churning. There is a lesson in all this, but she couldn't find it.

Voldemort pointed again. "There. The accident, like a boulder in that river. The cars are instantly thrown into turbulence, but even out over time to move around the car. To us, and those muggle insurance adjusters, everything about this scene can be represented by a complex arithmancy matrix. Right down to the age of the driver. But to that kid, that young boy, that one moment changed his whole life. To all those people, every moment feels something, has an emotion. That accident could have just ruined someone's life, but to us, arithmancy indicated the exact time, place, and severity of that accident. It had nothing to do with the boy driving the car. It had everything to do with that boy driving the car. Everything and nothing, coexisting."

The hard ground seemed to grow more uncomfortable with every passing moment that Hermione deliberated Voldemort's words. She flopped back onto his shins, relaxing into the contact. Everything about the scene in front of her was beautiful. The distinct choreography of a greater being, lights flashing from the first responders, the stream of lights moving in opposing directions separated by too little space for them to be moving so quickly. Everything was beautiful until she looked closer and imagined the pain involved. That human dimension skewed everything.

Voldemort's hands clasped Hermione's shoulders to steady her as he rose. He moved around her and held out a hand. "Next."

They ended up in a hospital, hands still clasped from the hillside overlooking the traffic. Hermione's palm slipped from his grasp as she turned to take in her surroundings.

"If you could do one thing here what would it be?"

The white walls were lined with stretchers, overflow. Hermione could hear the noise from the waiting room, a dull roar. "Help everyone."

"How?"

"I don't even know where to begin. I can't even imagine how to start."

Voldemort nodded. He moved his hands back to Hermione's sides. She flinched. "Relax. Trust me." Voldemort slid his hands around to her stomach moving them under her shirt. He firmly pressed his hands between her hipbones. Hermione's skin prickled in anticipation. "Breathe evenly, I'll match you." Hermione couldn't tell if her ears were telling her she heard his voice or if her mind read his intention, but she complied. Voldemort's body sheathed her, held her. The pressure on her stomach grew, and Hermione could feel the shift in her magic as he drew from her.

The din surrounding the pair was reduced to a faint murmur. The light did not seem so bright. The smell did not seem so sterile. The warmth growing in Hermione's core was pleasant, cooled by Voldemort's magic.

His magic felt like the belly of a snake, smooth, soft and supple. To Voldemort, Hermione's magic was a like a sun-warmed rock in the winter.

Suddenly, Hermione felt pulled in every direction. Darting from one sick person to the next. Her feet were stationary, but her heat pounded like she was running to every bedside. Confusion. Disembodied pain. Relief. Joy. Sadness. All crammed into the smallest sliver of time. Before Hermione could do enough, feel enough, change enough, she felt sucked back into her own reality.

Hermione slumped against Voldemort. His fingers catching her rib cage to hold steady her.

"We did a lot more here than I though we would. Let's go back to Isis." Still in Voldemort's arms, Hermione allowed herself to be taken home.

Tinkerbell was waiting eagerly for their arrival. When Voldemort led Hermione slowly into her room Tinkerbell rushed to help, changing Hermione into bed clothes, plaiting her unruly hair, and setting tea by the bed all during Hermione's steady trek to the bed. Voldemort dismissed Tinkerbell when Hermione was safely under the covers. Moments later he collapsed to his knees by her bedside.

"That was unbelievable." Voldemort pressed his forehead into the bed. He was grinning. "There is not a spell for what we just did Hermione. We saved people. We didn't save anyone's life, but maybe we saved their quality of life. Merlin, Hermione. Every other wizard on the planet is limited by the confines of their mind. Every healer can only heal people with spells they know how to cast. How do you do that?"

Hermione felt immediately rejuvenated once in bed. The weight of her limbs had been reduced to a deep tingle. "I've never done that before. It was you."

"It was us." Voldemort picked himself up from the floor and perched at Hermione's side. She shifted so Voldemort would have more room, but only gave him enough room so she could still feel his presence though the covers. "It's impossible to protect people Hermione. Everyday people narrowly escape death a hundred times, we can't model it, we've tried, people just do, some hand of fate pulls them away at the last minute. What we were just able to do is a huge improvement."

"I can't reconcile the contradictions. Everything you have shown me today contradicts everything I have been told, even makes what I have been told completely irrelevant. I don't believe those death eaters you claim are impostors could have perverted your message to such an extent."

Still grinning, Voldemort replied, "that's just it Hermione. We aren't protecting their lives Hermione. It's impossible. Death Eaters, eating death, is precisely what we cannot do. Everything in the world is at our disposal, but we cannot cheat death. We cannot even defer death. We can only free people to live their lives the best they can. Until tonight, really Hermione."

In accepting that she was fooled before, logically, she had to admit she could be fooled again. "Let's say for a moment I believe you. How do the impostors claim your crusade is the massacre of muggleborns, how did that concept even have a place in your vendetta?"

Voldemort, patiently as ever, responded to her every reservation. "I am a muggleborn Hermione. I may be a halfblood, but I am a muggleborn. I was raised in the muggle world. I hated every waking moment I spent in that prison. Dumbledore made it that way for me. Every summer I was thrust back into non-magical society, my powers bound. I was in prison. I am pure now because I have vowed to be considerate of my magical footprint in the muggle world."

Every fiber of Hermione's being wanted to believe him. She wanted to find solace in this new place, but she had to be sure. "That sounds a bit glossed over if you ask me."

"To an extent yes, I have killed people and I will kill again, and I will feel good doing it. If a burglar came into your home intending to kill your husband, children, and destroy all chances for your future would you not feel compelled to kill them?"

Hermione had heard this argument a thousand times before in every context from gun rights to Dark Arts education, "I would, but that's irrelevant."

"No, No, Hermione it isn't. That's exactly what people like Mr. Weasley are doing."

"Wait, no! He is a kind man, foolish at times, but kind and never does a thing with bad intentions."

"Hermione, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Every time he ventures into the muggle world in what could generously be described as a costume, he is erasing the line between muggle and magical. Misistry officials have to travel in his wake and obliviate muggles to prevent them remembering his antics."

"Who is to say there should even be a line between muggle and wizard? I think it is a great service Mr. Weasley does: to try to understand muggle technology."

"Hermione, I understand muggle technology, most powerful wizards understand muggle technology, and a fair few of the right sort of wizards are furthering the muggle technology muggles depend on so much."

"What exactly are you trying to tell me, Tom?" Hermione sat up from the bed so she could look Voldemort in the eyes.

"I'm trying to tell you that things aren't as they seem. That every time a wizard or witch traipses back and forth across the line separating our world from theirs, thousands of galleons and a handful of lives are spent trying to repair the damage that has been done. " Voldemort took a deep breath and moved his hand to Hermione's leg. "When even intelligent muggles sit to watch television in idle bliss, do you think they can even comprehend the complexity of its operation? Ions being shot from a tube in perfect order to illuminate the screen in front of them. They aren't ready to understand. They can't understand, with every new technology we develop we bring a fair few closer to us, but at the same time the convenience that technology causes pushes countless more away."

Hermione subconsciously moved her hand closer to Voldemort's. Now the two lay temptingly close. "I can fill in all the blanks to corroborate the hope that I already have. The hope that you really are a good person and are fighting the good fight, but you needs to be more specific."

"Hermione, Isis has untold amount of power and is protected by immeasurable force. I use my power without shame. I have tortured people and relished it. I have killed hundreds and will kill hundreds more. I crave it."

Voldemort paused dramatically as if to let his words sink in. The effect did not endear him any more to Hermione. Her mind recoiled, trying to shut out everything she felt.

He leaned forward to attract her gaze again. "But I believe in a power bigger than myself, bigger than all of us. And between me and that infinite power is Isis, they ground me, they require justification for my actions. If you cannot believe me when I'm telling you the basic foundation of my life, you are never going to believe your place in it."

"As long as you know there is something out there more powerful than you, judging you. I trust you."


	8. Chapter 8

Hermione remembered falling asleep with Voldemort sitting by her side, yet wasn't surprised to find her room empty the next morning. Since Hermione lay in bed relishing the view of the mountains just outside her window, it took her a few moments to realize Tinkerbell was milling around the room.

"Tinkerbell is so happy mistress is awake. Tinkerbelll was telling Tinkerbell to do what she was told to do, but mistress looks so happy sleeping Tinkerbell couldn't." The little elf was wrought with indecision. Every step toward Hermione was carefully deliberated - before and after Tinkerbell had taken the step. The result was a path that had to double back on itself every other stride. It was painfully slow progress, to say the least.

Throwing the covers off, Hermione leapt out of bed. The day was young; she had a mind full of questions, and was already developing a plan of attack so she could get some answers.

Tinkerbell, visibly startled by Hermione's sudden movement, was spurred into action. "Wait! Hermione, wait!" Tinkerbell skittered in front of Hermione and pushed her palms against Hermione's kneecaps as if to prevent her from taking another step. "Is mistress sure mistress is not tired?" Hermione nodded. Tinkerbell squinted in an attempt to see if Hermione was lying. "Mistress must let Tinkerbell do her work then."

Carefully guided by the small elf, Hermione was led into the bathroom. She couldn't bring herself to hurt the little elf's feelings, for the umpteenth time, so she consented to be ordered around.

Hours passed, or at least that's what it felt like to Hermione. Practically tortured by every known cleansing, exfoliating, hair removal, trimming, clipping, and softening spell known to elf magic, she was finally deemed fit to leave the confines of her room.

Tinkerbell stepped back to admire her work, nodded, and then robbed Hermione in a white kolpos. Hermione tried to smile at Tinkerbell, which turned out to be more of a sneer, before moving to the drawer she thought was most likely to contain under garments. The chest of drawers was close to the door, though, and before Hermione could discern where Tinkerbell was guiding her, she was in the hallway with the door to her room already tightly shut behind her.

Surprises like this one were starting to run par for the course. Admittedly, Hermione was getting better at taking things in stride. Spontaneity if you will.

The naturally illuminated hallway had no fewer than seven or eight doors on either side of Hermione's room. Magically enhanced windows allowed Hermione the chance to get distracted, once again, by the extraordinary views.

'There is something humbling about the massive orogeny that creates mountains. Its like standing neck deep in water on the shore of the ocean, you've already gone too far but there are still many miles to go before you make it to new land. Like learning. Read one book and get a craving, read ten and get a taste, read a thousand more and feel uninformed. When I stand in front of insurmountable odds, I feel like I could spend years in the library and still not be prepared for every contingency. Thank goodness no one seems to prepare, like the chasing the philosopher's stone. Dumbledore is such an idiot. Harry went to save the day and ended up getting Voldemort closer to the stone than Voldemort or any of his followers ever would have been able to without Harry there. That's understandable though, but to be used in exactly the same way again when Voldemort exploited Harry and his connection to lure Harry into saving the day once again. Clearly, Harry has a hero complex. Clearly, Dumbledore didn't read my reports. Clearly, no one read my reports.'

Hermione's inner monologue distracted her enough to meander through the labyrinth of corridors. Contrary to her usual deliberate decisions, she decided to go the opposite direction than her first instinct directed - down a hallway she had never been led, told to take, or even explored out of curiosity. Even now, she couldn't explain what made her feel comfortable enough to take the risk.

'In all honesty the point-of-no-return was passed the moment I stepped out of Grimmauld Place. Maybe before, when I worked harder in Snape's class than any other. If I'm going to play that game, I was a goner the moment I thought it may be better to hide my status in muggle life from the wizarding world.' The endless regression could easily go back to the moment she was conceived and the first cell split in a way that made her darker tendencies more prominent than her goodwill.

The fortress reveled itself more with every footfall, and could be described as no less than extraordinary. Every surface had all the rustic touches of a mountain lodge, but the precision and cleanliness of a modern apartment. Hermione was compelled to run her finger along every engraving, grout crease...everything. Notably absent were the feminine touches of a home: trinkets on shelves, coffee table books - did wizards even have coffee table books?

Hermione was so lost in thought and tuned into her sense of touch, she didn't hear the thick rumble of voices in the room ahead of her. She was too absorbed in the thick-wood paneling now on the walls, the few steep steps leading her into a sunken room - enveloping her in the secure feeling of a cave. The kind of safety that could only be explained by homo sapiens' early caveman beginnings. But, the books. A far cry from the primitive caveman. The books are what held her attention long enough to completely ignore the two, motionless faces observing her.

Antonin Dolohov was the first to call attention to himself. His finger, frozen on the marble queen chess piece, pushed down until the queen lost balance and snapped sideways onto the board. Hermione's head whipped around at the noise.

For an instant, Hermione was frozen in animated surprise. Dolohov had to admit she was beautiful. Her long, dark hair. Large golden eyes. Porcelain skin. She managed to make the bolt of fabric they wore around look good. Really good. The white fabric was opaque in the darkness of the library, but

Dolohov was willing to bet if she stood between him and light, the fabric wouldn't conceal much. Even when opaque, the fabric was kind to his eyes. Her quick turn caused her breasts to jostle just enough to draw his eyes immediately to the stiff points interrupting the fabric's natural drapery. His eyes didn't stop there. A kolpos is essentially a panel of fabric tied at the shoulder and a rope belt keeps the front and back of the panel flush with the body. And what a body it was. The gap running the length of Hermione's leg was not nearly enough to satisfy the curiosity of either man.

Carrow uncomfortably shifted his weight from one foot to another, effectively breaking the spell that had allowed both parties to inspect the other.

"I'm so terribly sorry, I was just was wandering. I did not mean to disturb you." Hermione's natural instinct was to apologize. Be it her fault, or not.

Dolohov was still dumbstruck; Carrow's eyes darted from Hermione to Dolohov to Hermione and realized Antonin was not going to be the first to speak. "Forgive us. We are not used to company, but, please, stay."

Hermione hesitantly moved toward the chair the Alecto Carrow was pulling out for her. Surprisingly, Carrow was the one being most hospitable. Carrow often appeared in Dumbledore's debriefings, and not in a gentle, hospitable light. Unfortunately, the chair Carrow was reaching for was on the other side of a chess table the second man clearly did not want her sitting at. She was able to remember the man's specialty: viruses. His name: Antonin Dolohov.

Dolohov was staring at her with fire behind his eyes; Hermione had recognized it from her school days. It was hatred only a pureblood was capable of conveying. Hermione was tempted to challenge his gaze, but had to look away after only a few heartbeats. She felt shame. At who she was. At her intelligence with at every person she met dwindled. By her blood.

On the table, the wizard's chess piece Dolohov had knocked over was waging war with his finger that had yet to leave its resting place on the board. Dolohov seemed unfazed by the attack and even without looking - Hermione could still feel his glare boring into her.

Hermione struggled to look anywhere but at Dolohov. Along the edge of the table Hermione found an inscription, "Inventas vitam juvat excoluisse per artes".

She must have mumbled the Latin out loud, because Dolohov finally broke out of his trace.

"It means 'and they who bettered life on earth by their newly found mastery', the phrase is engraved on quite a lot of Isis' things." Dolohov's demeanor had completely changed. As he cleaned up the wizard's chessboard he held none on the animosity he had directed at her only moments before, only a dark intensity.

"I know." Hermione breathed, unsure if she should even respond and risk his glare again. "I was only surprised to have found it here. It is engraved on a medal of my great grandmother's."

At this, both Carrow and Dolohov visibly showed their surprise.

"She won the Nobel Peace Prize, Emily Greene Balch. From my mother's side of the family, but Mother doesn't like to speak of her much so I haven't seen the medal since I was little." Hermione ran her finger over the words etched in the wood of the table.

"Emily Greene. That's interesting. It seems as though greatness runs in your blood." Carrow said more to himself than an audience.

Hermione didn't know if the reference to her blood was supposed to be condescending, but it sure felt like it. "You know of the Nobel Prize?"

Before Hermione could get an answer, Voldemort himself rounded the corner. He paused to take in the tableau: Hermione being curious as always, Carrow thinking deeply to himself, and Dolohov looking a little too interested in Hermione. Voldemort's eyes darted back to Hermione and he noted why. It was more of a guttural feeling Voldemort felt, than a specific characteristic. Something about her had changed.

"Carrow, Dolohov. Get everything ready we're going back to Kensington. Now." The two men left the room quickly. Voldemort's deathly glare bore into Dolohov. When the two had gone, Voldemort had nowhere to look but at Hermione.

That innate sense that something had changed about her hit him full force.

"Hermione, go back to your room. Your parents get back soon and Tinkerbell will have clothes suitable for the muggle world." Voldemort turned to leave but sensed Hermione hadn't made a move for the door yet. "Yes? Are you too weak? I should have known."

"I just don't know my way back to my room. Why would I be weak?" Hermione said defensively.

"Your elf woke you up with a potion. It can't do everything to take away the weakness though."

"Tinkerbell is not mine and she did not use a potion to wake me up. I feel fine."

Voldemort was in no mood for a sparing match this morning. Olli did in fact have to use a potion to wake him up this morning and though he didn't feel weak, he did feel hungover. And now a slight bit jealous of the girl's apparent ability to stabilize her magic level. It corroborated his theory, though, so he couldn't be too bitter on the subject. Voldemort's all-consuming need to rationalize everything would not allow his pride to discount fact.

Hermione wasn't prepared for Voldemort to stalk to her side and immediately side-along apparate them back to her room. So she was even less prepared for the bone tingling feeling spreading from Voldemort's touch. Not a second after the two landed in Hermione's room the sensation stopped and Hermione was left wanton. She looked into his eyes for an explanation as her knees went weak. It had felt amazing. Voldemort's only indication that he had felt something similar was a lingering smirk on his boyish face.

"If only every apparation could feel this...much." Voldemort chuckled. It was an odd sound coming from his mouth. Hermione had copied lots of postoperative statements saying Voldemort cackled, snickered, and all kinds of lewd and derisive celebratory sounds during battles, but never chuckle.

"What. Happened."

"It should not always affect you so much. That was just the first time. Get whatever you want to bring with you together. Tinkerbell should be here with some clothes shortly."

Hermione could hardly even think. It just felt that good. The feeling was that deep kind of wonderful that if felt for too long, it would be painful. But for now, Hermione was content with her small indulgence. And she was already craving her next fix.

What Hermione didn't know was Voldemort was leaning against the wall in the hallway with his hands on his knees. Panting to catch his breath. It did not just feel 'much' it felt pleasurable, gratifying, stimulating. Voldemort could have chosen any number of adjectives to have left Hermione feel less alone, singular in her interpretation of the feeling. Less like her youth allowed her to feel too much and too one-sided. Yet, Hermione seemed to be too lost in her own thoughts a lot today.

'I need to be more aware, who knows how long Voldemort will keep me so I need to learn everything I can as fast as I can and that means keeping my eyes and ears open, I need to look up the origin of that phrase from the chessboard, and I need to look up more about my great grandmother, its suspicious no one ever talks about her and everyone got so jumpy when I mentioned her earlier, and I need to...where is that dang house el-.'

"Tinkerbell is sorry to have frightened mistress. Tinkerbell has clothes." Tinkerbell held up the neatly folded stack of clothes between her small frame and Hermione as half piece offering, half protection from whatever Hermione was going to do to the elf for startling her master.

Hermione, frustrated with herself, nicked the clothes from the little elf's hands and started battling the folds of fabric with shaky hands.

Life back in Kensington was different. The ebb and flow of each day slowly eroded the wall that had been erected between Hermione and Voldemort since the apparation incident.

For days Voldemort would nary say a word to her. Instead sitting on the counter of her make-shift lab flipping through her notes. The first day was the easiest. Engaged in a cosmic dance, inexplicably drawn to each other like poles, and forced apart by Voldemort's unwavering determination to keep from touching.

Even the most innocent situations would draw the two closer than what could be considered necessary. Voldemort reaching over Hermione's shoulder to retrieve a book from the shelf, coincidentally at the same time Hermione would be shifting her weight in her seat. Drawing the pair to unnaturally close quarters.

Voldemort was careful to evade her touch. For once, Hermione found herself craving his touch. It was whorish. Corporal. Common. Subsequently, Voldemort turned from steeled avoidance to experimentation.

The witch who, only a week before, had conjured a maze to represent the physical and psychological barriers between them, was now not only comfortable with his touch, but craving it.

Voldemort's movements were practiced. He would hover so closely the tension was palpable and then draw away. Only to continue alternating the feeling of imminent relief when he was getting closer, with the desperation of moving away.

How Voldemort was able to keep Hermione's senses on edge and return her notebooks full of annotations and corrections as fast as Hermione could quill them, Hermione would never know. Her wand was itching to be put to use, but she was banished to her lab until Hermione made it through all the reading Tom Riddle had completed by her age. And more.

Mrs. Granger, bless her, was so ecstatic to have Tom around. Even if Voldemort stalked up to the back porch, barged in, and declared 'Mrs. Granger. I am Lord Voldemort the most feared wizard of our time – the one who your daughter and her schoolyard friends have devoted their lives to destroying,' Mrs. Granger would giggle and say 'Now Tom. Quit being silly, Hermione really has you spinning yarns. Come, have some tea.'

The whole display Tom put on for the sake of the Grangers was sickening from Hermione's vantage point. From the view of the carriage house, quilling dissertations on obscure magical history. While Tom was having morning tea with her smitten mother. Sickening.

Fed up, Hermione took one last look at her mother showing Tom the greenhouse and hopped the fence.

She crept through the gardens of Isis' house, unsure if any good could come from walking straight up to the front door and knocking. Hermione did just that. Better to have tried and have failed than to get caught sulking in the gardens.

Not surprisingly, the knocker was a large snakehead but felt much lighter to lift than its appearance suggested. The reverberating thud of the knocker was so loud it was sure to draw out anyone inside. And it did. In much less time than the size of the house should have allowed.

Slowly, the metal mechanisms of the door began to unfurl on the other side of the thick plane of wood.

"You."

"Granger."

A third voice from behind Hermione this time, "Now Hermione, I know you have yet to finish the corrections and further reading I suggested on the Goblin Taxation and Accreditation Scheme for Non-magical Folk."

"Looks like you are in luck Granger. Finances are my area of expertise."

"Like. You. Would. Help. Me."


End file.
